This Old House

Liesl Schiavone reflects on her childhood home and the lessons learned there.  

I recently returned from visiting my childhood home for what is likely the last time. In a few weeks my dad will begin the move from the house I grew up in to a smaller, more manageable home. 

The house I speak of sits on a hill in a small, rural, river town in northeastern Pennsylvania. It’s an old Victorian-style home built in 1895 with plaster walls, pocket doors, and ten-foot ceilings. Though old, it features exceptional craftsmanship in its beautiful stained glass and woodwork. The house has four fireplaces, three porches, and a hidden staircase. The basement is dark, damp, and creepy and the attic is a haven for bats. It was an operating funeral home for many years but has been retired since before my family moved there in 1993. It shows its age in its missing tiles and broken cabinets, but it’s big and beautiful and full of character. 

This old house is beautiful, but it’s not fancy. It doesn’t have marble countertops or smart appliances. It isn’t full of designer furnishings but is beautifully decorated with a wide range of pictures and wall décor either done by my brother or mom (both artists) or pieces acquired as gifts from the travels of friends and family. There are rugs from Turkey, religious icons from Italy, beer steins from Germany, and so much more. If someone in the family traveled there, there is a piece on display on the walls or mantles. There is heirloom furniture and China in the hutches. Its finishes are not luxurious, but its rooms are among the most welcoming you’ll find. It’s the kind of home where all are welcome, where no one needs to knock, and the doorbell is only used for official business. It’s the kind of home where friends would stop by just because there was always a friendly face to greet them. 

If walls could talk, these walls could tell a beautiful story. 

The dining room could tell of birthdays, Christmases, and long family meals with bottles of wine, laughter, and the occasional spirited debate. It could tell of lessons in faith and catechesis, discussed socratically for our instruction around our dining room table. It could tell of prom night dinner parties, where Mom would serve a beautiful meal on fine china just to be fancy. 

The kitchen could tell of countless meals prepared by Mom and my sisters, some batches of burnt rolls (forgotten about during the long family dinners), and a coffee pot always working to keep up with supply and demand. 

The deck could recall many a graduation party, Wingfest, and summer night looking up at the stars. 

The family room could reminisce about long mornings drinking coffee and grandkids falling asleep to a movie while the adults enjoyed cocktails in the living room until we all retired to bed. 

The entry hall welcomed countless guests from near and far and hosted the yearly VanHaute Easter egg roll. 

So much has happened within the walls of this house. 

This is the house where we brought college friends home on break for a home cooked meal and comfortable bed. 

The house to which we brought our significant others turned fiancés turned spouses to meet the family they would eventually join. 

The house where we mourned the loss of loved ones: our grandparents, an uncle, a nephew. 

The house in which we learned of my niece’s cancer diagnosis and where we rushed to for an emergency “Thanksgiving in October” before my brother’s deployment.  

The house where my sisters and I got ready for our weddings and where 37 grandchildren came bounding through the doors for visit after visit. 

The house where we came to serve Mom in her final weeks; cooking for her, reading to her, and helping her find the smallest bit of comfort in her suffering. 

The house where we all soberly returned on November 8, 2022 after Mom entered into eternal life. 

The house where we all gathered a few months later to celebrate the wedding of the oldest Granddaughter and caught a glimpse of the past and hope of a full future. 

These walls have seen the work of a family; they’ve seen love in action. 

As I walked through this creaky house, I reflected on the years that mom made this house a home. Mom wasn’t an exceptional housekeeper, but she was a heck of a homemaker. She built a sanctuary where the souls of her loved ones could be held and loved. She built a place where we were always welcome, where we could strive to love perfectly in an imperfect world, and she built it with insurmountable warmth and charity. 

This old house has served us well, but it’s time to move on from it. Because what’s important about this house isn’t its walls or its foundation. What’s important is the people that grew here and the way the Spirit moved within its walls. Those people have been set out on new missions and now the Spirit moves within their own homes as they carry on this important work. This house is ready for a new mission. 

This old house may be moving on, but your house is still at work. Your walls are soaking in memories and the Spirit is moving day after day. Your domestic church is operational and the work that’s being done there is sanctifying.  

Live well within your walls. 

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Copyright 2024 Liesl Schiavone
Images: copyright 2024 Liesl Schiavone, all rights reserved.