Each day we passed the house.  Lonely, cold and dark it stood on top of the hill leading into the village where we lived.  As far as anyone knew, nobody lived there.  The grass always seemed to be cut.  The landscaping always seemed to have been trimmed and upkept over the course of each year that went by.  I guess it could have been done by the village for appearance.

The large brick home stood two and a half stories tall, and overlooked the road going into the village.  A large yard and a cast iron fence bordered the street with an ivy that traced along the ground beside the crumbling steps leading to the front door.  Once beautiful woodwork adorned the front porch while curtain-less windows gaped out at the occasional passerby who would make their way along the worn brick sidewalk in front of the house.

Over the years the house became more and more dilapidated.  The shutters began to fall off.  The roof started to collapse inward and nobody really seemed to care. 

For me it was hard.  It was a beautiful old home that maybe once had held dreams and a family that cared for it.  The walls had maybe once held family pictures and drawings and paintings done by small hands out of love.  Someone had saved and bought the house for the sake of making a home out of it.  Children had been raised. 

Years had passed.  One day soon someone may notice and either it would be torn down or restored to it’s former glory.  Somehow it spoke to me of how we often treat ourselves too.  We live our lives with dreams, with hopes and great expectations and somehow years pass, and we fall into disrepair both spiritually and physically.  Our regrets turn to fears and we sometimes look on the younger generation who has this future hope jealousy wishing for the years back. 

I am hoping for restoration for this house.  We have the time that is left.  We have a dream that yet need fulfilled and we have the hand of the Architect to hold our own.  Let us live the dreams this house was made for.