But neither exile nor homecoming is the main thing…. St. Paul
I am haunted by the idea of a home — a true home. The haunting stems from the nagging feeling that my new house — a newly constructed subdivision home in a Phoenix suburb — was not a real home. Finally, after two years of caregiving in this new home, I am beginning to feel like this place is a true home.
In New York, my home had been a refuge from the overstimulation and stress of the city. My little garden, the warm brown floors and creamy yellow walls created a restful home, where I could find replenishment and serenity in the midst of city life. Every night felt like a homecoming to me, as I returned from my job on Wall Street. A homecoming that I welcomed joyfully.
Then, I moved to a Southwest suburbia, and I fell immediately into exile. My brand-spanking new, cookie-cutter subdivision house did not feel like a real home, and I mourned the loss of my little Brooklyn apartment.
As a caregiver, the house was transformed into a workplace with never-ending 24-hour shifts. It was a jail that forced me to forego my freedom that I had enjoyed as a singleton. The house underwent a physical transformation to accomodate the handicapped GFG’s needs: a scooter ramp, special furniture and bathroom fixtures were installed. The bathroom cabinets teemed with medicine bottles; the coffee tables and surfaces became cluttered with the detritus of invalids: tissue boxes, insurance forms, glasses, blankets and heating pads.
My house was not a home; it was a little hospice.
My sense of exile from my old homeland deepened into a depression. Healing for this sense of exile finally came through a combination of prayer and paintbrush power.
In my prayers, I invited God into my home and make it His home, asking the Holy Spirit to fill the hallways and crannies with joy, laughter and song. The Holy Spirit was the force that can bring God’s transforming power to a house and make it His Home. I prayed for the house to become a little glimpse of heaven.
Then, I applied the power of the painbrush to the walls. Sage green, bronze, silver green and peach colors were liberally applied to the walls. The process was a slow one, filled with missteps and plenty of reapplications of paint. For the first 18 months, I was engaged in a perpetual battle to cover the blank white walls of my subdivision home with glorious color. The color was the first step to making my house into a home — and a place for spiritual nourishment on my journey through Caregiverland.
