Finding Mary in an Old Farmhouse
by Sarah Reinhard in Faith on Monday, April 26, 2010 6:00 AM
I didn’t exactly plan to live in an old farmhouse. It just happened to be the house my husband owned. It’s perched on a lovely piece of property, one that continues to woo me with its gentle slopes and beautiful views. The creek bed, the surrounding fields, and even the weeds have an allure.
It was built at the turn of the 20th century, when life was very different. It started as a two-story four-room brick house in the middle of nowhere. Over the years, subsequent owners added on to it until my husband’s brother purchased it, 15 years ago. It’s now a quite nice amount of living space, though arranged very differently than modern houses.
So why is my first reaction to a friend’s comment about the possibilities a cynical remark about wasps and drafts?
Often, my old farmhouse forces me to step back from the fast track of life, from the internet that I’ve so embraced, and find silence.
Standing in my kitchen, with my hands immersed in soapy water after dinner, watching the sun set over our back barn, I can’t help but wonder if Mary had a view like mine.
And then I think about what life must have been like for her. Did she wish for a bigger home, for better connectivity, for more convenience?
I suspect, instead, that she offered it to God. Maybe she was frustrated with the endless fix-it-up projects her house – which probably wasn’t brand-new – posed for her, but I’ll bet that instead of complaining, she laughed.
She wouldn’t have laughed at Joseph, of course, but at the honor of raising God’s Son in such a humble place. He got dirty just as my kids do. He probably stepped on a wasp, tore his sock on a nail, and tripped over an uneven board.
The key isn’t to have the best. Mary shows me, with her gentle laughter, that I need to keep my eyes open to the possibilities (and perhaps also to my own tendency to be skeptical about their existence).
I find Mary, so often, in my kitchen. I greet her there when I sit down in the morning at my scarred kitchen table, a remnant of my husband’s boisterous family. I smile her way when I’m standing at that table mating socks and folding towels, when I’m hunched over a cookbook trying to figure out what, exactly, sautéing involves, when I’m sharing tea with a good friend.
In my old house, eye sore to some and quaintly old-fashioned to others, I feel Mary’s gentle presence beside me.
“It’s OK,” she whispers, as I jump at the sight of a wasp crawling on the floor. “Just crush it without yelling this time. You can do it. I know you can!”
She’s all around me, holding my hand throughout the day. She reminds me that my house – with all of its charm and failings – is not that important in the end. It’s just a structure, after all. She challenges me, with her gentle way, to use it as a road sign to fix up my inner life and grow closer to her Son.
Through the example of her ongoing Yes, Mary nudges me gently to accepting the grace to see past the peeling plaster to the possibility beyond and the family that makes it a haven of memories.
I can only be grateful that she does the same with Jesus and my soul.
—When she’s not screaming at wasps or chasing critters, Sarah Reinhard writes about Mary, motherhood, and the idiosyncrasies of life in her old farmhouse at SnoringScholar.com.
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