Did you ever gaze at a distant house as the sun dropped over the hill? Did you ever notice the windows shining in the setting sun? Didn't they look like windows of gold? Didn't those houses seem to be bursting with gold? Did you ever hike over to see - to see whether those houses were really houses of gold?
A ten-year-old boy once did that. From his house on the hill he saw another house on another hill. In the setting sun the far-off windows seemed like windows of gold. It seemed the owner pulled down the blinds, because after a while the boy could not see the golden windows. He would find out. He would see for himself. He set off.
It was a long walk, but he finally arrived, only to find that the house was like any other building - no gold in its windows, no gold inside. With his chin in his hands he leaned upon the fence and stared disappointedly at the dismal windows. Weariedly he turned toward his own home, to discover to his joy that its windows were made of gold. His own house was bursting with gold.
The trip home took much less time. It was already dark. But as he plodded nearer the gate the light of the lamp in the windows made them look like gold; the flare of the fireplace across the lawn was golden like the setting sun. The lamp and the fireplace gave the best golden glow after all.
Whether or not your home is filled with gold will depend on how closely it is modeled after a certain home of long ago. It was an unusually humble place in a little town called Nazareth. There lived the three most precious people in the world. Like that little boy of our story we will hurry to the tiny dwelling whose brightness shines across the world and across the centuries. The glow of a heavenly calm and happiness fills it to overflowing. The very walls and ceiling seem to have been made with materials from heaven. It might be the poorest, the smallest, but certainly it is not the darkest house in Nazareth. We are drawn to it. We want to stop. We want to look in. We want to enter. We want to stay there.
Peek in for a moment. We see a middle-aged man, rather tall, muscular, and strongly silent. He is sharpening tools. In a homemade rocking chair sits a very youngish looking woman, with heaven glowing in her face, so that the wool with which she works seems spun of gold. A boy about twelve sits on a stool near the man, watching every move closely, picking up everything he lays down, handling it, gazing at it proudly, and then placing it in the row of tools upon the floor.
A very ordinary family, to be sure, and yet extremely extraordinary. Evidently there is abundance of love, not sniveling sentimentality, or indifferent indulgence, or carefree negligence, but thoughtful, self-sacrificing, understanding affection.
Looking at those holy three, you get the idea they would rather be there than anywhere else in the world; you get the impression that they are their own best company.
Much as we want, we cannot stay, Still there are countless cottages built on the plan of that place in Pa1estine. Perhaps you would like to come with me as I visit one this morning.
As we enter the front room we know it is another Nazareth, for there upon the wall we notice a picture of the little Family we just left in imagination. On the reading table we catch titles of good Catholic publications. Fingering through the piles of papers and periodicals, we should not find not a single publication that might bring a purple blush to Jesus, Mary or Joseph. We take a book-worm's view of the bookcase; quite a few Catholic titles there. Into the dining room our hostess leads us; a fine plaque of the Last Supper clings to the farther wall. The sideboard boasts a standing picture of one of the Saints, who seems to feel at home, and who makes me feel at home.
"Father, come see our kitchen."
The kitchen includes two small pictures of the Sacred Heart and our Blessed Mother, smiling at each other, and no doubt smiling at every step and stroke our mother hostess takes. With all its modern conveniences, this cuisine still echoes the kitchen of Nazareth.
"Look, Father, this is where I keep my rosary and prayerbook, right here in the corner of this drawer," says the little girl of the house. No Sunday morning, last minute looking for "church utensils" in this family.
"See this little table, Father? That's where we have our crib and May altar and during June mother puts the Sacred Heart there. We take turns dusting and decorating."
The invitation to dinner we gladly accept, if for no other reason than to hear the tiniest lisping: "Bless us, 0 Lord. . . ."
As the meal concludes, I sense a sort of quiet. All join in a prayer for several intentions of concern to the family.
An appointment at the rectory pulls me away from this 21st century Nazareth, this house of gold in a world of dross. There are many such homes; and should be millions more.
Through my thoughts kept running the words of the blessing of a new house.
"Let the angels of light dwell within its walls, and guard it and those that dwell therein."Perhaps in your own home and for your own home you would like to repeat the Church's official prayer for a house:
"Mercifully hear us, O holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God: and deign to send thy holy angel from heaven to guard, foster, protect, visit, and defend all that dwell in this house. Through Christ our Lord, Amen."__________________
Adapted from Occasional Talks
by Fr. Arthur Tonne, OFM (©1949)
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