It's hard for me to fathom that as of yesterday we have lived in our "new" house for a month. (I put "new" in quotation marks because the house is actually quite old, being built in 1931.)

There's still boxes of stuff sitting around, although we try to hide them. Some stuff we don't know where to put, some stuff really should be thrown away, and some stuff we just don't want to deal with.

But "stuff" really isn't what I want this post to be about.

This house is 79 years old. A lot of life has been lived in this house. Jonathan thinks I'm odd for thinking about all that this house has seen. With my back problems, I spend a lot of time alone, thinking.

Were the people who built the house relatively wealthy considering it was built at the beginning of the Great Depression? Did a mother sit on the front porch waiting for her son to come home from war? Did she see him walk up the street, or did she refuse to open the door when the telegram came?

Was there a war inside of the house about getting a t.v.? Did Mom and Pop have to give in when they saw that the preacher had a t.v. in his house? (Something like that happened with my Dad and his parents.)

Well, here's something that I'll admit goes on in this house: sometimes I'll listen to Amy Grant's IF THESE WALLS COULD SPEAK and think about all the life that has been lived here. I do wonder what these walls would say. And someday after Jonathan and I no longer live here, I wonder what they will have to about us.