A House is Not a Home

Late

Henry pulled into the driveway, being sure to grab his Bible from the passenger seat before leaving the car. The outside of their home was less than delightful to look at- that much Henry knew. It was like that when they'd first moved in. Of course, that was when they were just married, and had no kids. He always told himself he'd take a day off of work and have the kids help him repaint the house while they were still out of school.

However, that was months ago. The summer air quickly turning to fall and then winter, where a light blanket of snow was beginning to fall in late October. Not an unusual sight for northern Indiana.

The snow never failed to disappoint. Especially when it came to covering up the overgrown weeds, vines, and sun damaged paint collecting on the side of their home, the easiest home renovation Henry's ever worked on.

Henry shook his head at himself when he realized he was just standing in his driveway, staring up at the paneling of the old house.

"We live in the middle of nowhere, who cares what it looks like." he mumbled to himself, shrugging. It was true. The Randalls' home was enveloped by the most stereotypical backdrop of Indiana every created. Cornfields in the front and back of their home for miles and miles and miles. The only signs of civilization for the next ten minutes was an old convenience store (that now housed raccoons and mice because nobody wants to buy it out), and a hole-in-the-wall pawn shop. Their closest neighbor lived twenty minutes away.

Henry was so caught up in thinking about the overgrown mess as he walked up the porch stairs to his front door that he didn't even begin to think about what was waiting for him on the other side. Why would he? Why would that thought cross his mind on a near-perfect Tuesday?

They had been careful, promised that the last one would definitely be the last one. So, no, Henry did not concern himself with the thought.