 Home Sweet Home
The Vision
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We all know that there is more to a home than a house, that it is more than just a place to hang your hat. What we are less sure of is what that added dimension is. It is a mystery that, like that cake we already ate, eludes us. As one who too often must hang my hat in the impersonal confines of the standard American motel, I can tell you the difference is not in mere physical comfort. In the motel I have better reception on the television, and many more channels. I have more room in my bed, and a tidier desk to work on. I have private control of the room temperature, and never find stockings drying in the shower. There are no lingering reminders of dirty diapers, and no Kix crumbs sticking to the bottoms of my feet. What makes a house a home is not that the house is bigger than the motel room but that the home is bigger than me. Home is the place where I fit in. It is that place where I join into something so much bigger than myself. (And keep in mind I'm so fat that when I sit around the house, I sit around the house.) In a house I am isolated, cut off, alone, no matter how many people might share the same roof. In a home I am never alone, even when there is no one else there. It is a place of comfort because it is a collective. We are torn in two directions on this whole matter of identity. You see it illustrated best among the disaffected youth who don the shock wear of the day. Whether it is green spiked hair, or the pancake make-up and black nails of the goth gaggle, young people always take the heroic stand for individualism with all their like-thinking, like-dressing friends, all based on the mass-produced angry music and angry literature that distinguishes this crowd. They are the misunderstood loners, this massive crowd of cookie-cutter individualists. We who have reached that age in which we have no hair feel something of the same pull, though perhaps it is expressed in less dramatic ways. We want to be the lone hero. We want to determine our own identity. We wouldn't think of succumbing to group-think. Everybody knows how horrible that is. The reality is that we do need and rightly have an identity larger than ourselves. That identity is broadest not as citizens of the planet, as our would-be U.N. masters would have us think. It is not as good Americans, nor even as sons of the South. It is broadest in the kingdom of heaven, where we are one with all God's people, even the ones that irritate us. The circle within that circle is the local expression of the catholic church. And the circle within that circle is the family. What makes a house a home is that we are one thing together, just as what makes a church building a church is that we are one thing together with all who profess the true faith. There are, however, faux homes invading our houses, alternate broader identities that seek to seduce us. We receive a counterfeit comfort when our identity is more with the guys down at the bar, or the girls down at wherever girls go when they go out together. More important, our children are susceptible to these fake families. We, of course, are all in a panic when our girls have as their corporate identity an undying love for the shy one of the Back Street Boys, or an unquenchable dream to be just like that Spears girl. The problem, however, is not merely the moral quality of the crowds our children identify with, but that their identity is outside the home. It would not be a great leap forward if our daughters thought of their peers who owned American Girl dolls as their family. While mooning over a Back Street Boy (or even a rock star with talent) or gyrating in front of a mirror like Britney are things I hope I'll never see my daughters do, and while I'm perfectly content for them to play with their American Girl dolls, I want them to know that they belong to our family, that this is our home. I want them to know that what defines them is first this covenant we are in along with all our brothers and sisters around the world; and second, that we are Sprouls. There is content within that name that goes beyond the address of our home. There is a history of shared experiences and shared convictions. They know it, but only because I am careful to tell them. We are all on a quest together, to grow in obedience, to become more godly, to make manifest the reign of the King who redeemed us. In addition, we say dinner instead of lunch, and supper instead of dinner. We root for the Pittsburgh Steelers. We love Mommy's bread and her granola, and we laugh that daddy tends to burn the grilled cheese sandwiches. We rejoice when the chickens produce, and more often we share a dose of stoicism when they don't. What feeds this family identity that makes our house a home is that we live within it. We actually act like a family, because we try to do things as a family. We all watch Andy Griffith together. We all participate in family and corporate worship together. We go to the lake together and visit our friends together. We go to school together and we even go to Bible study together. We play games together. We even (gasp!) eat meals together. We are always home wherever we are, if we are together, because our family is our home. It is not kitsch from some country knick-knack store that makes a house a home. It is not a white picket fence, or a cuddly dog. It is not the smell of fresh baked cookies. (In fact, such is sufficient to create intense moments of every-man-for-himself individualism.) It is the shared conviction that we share convictions and loyalties, hardships and joys. It is our unity in affirming and enjoying our unity.
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