If These Walls Could Talk...

Welcome. Thank you for coming. If these walls could talk, this is what they'd say.

The story of how I came to be is intriguing, for certain. Upon these walls, now painted over, are the unseen fingerprints of many helping hands. Calloused hands, manicured hands, hands that were skilled with sheet rock and circular saws and paint rollers, and some, not so much, but all of them moved to labor by love. Within and just outside these walls, children painted under their parents' watchful eyes. The roof was masterfully laid by a retired schoolteacher who earned the nickname "Coach." One day, a homeless man who'd come to assist carefully and ever-so-bravely taught a woman how to operate a nail gun for the first time in her life. I'd laugh and tell you he still has all of his fingers and no stigmata-mimicking wounds.

I'd tell you the paintings that hang here were created by a kindhearted, determined man - the same man whose faith and compassion compelled him to do something different. Something innovative that would serve the less fortunate. So he raised not only his own voice, but the spirits and hope of those around him. He and other like-minded individuals formed a group known as "Catholics and Friends with a Heart for the Homeless," joined forces with a local engineer in whose mind (and driveway) I was conceived.

I would thank those who consented to showcase me, those who transported me, those whose curiosity brought them here this past week. I would ask for a place where, without the support of concrete blocks beneath my floorboards, I can settle onto the earth, wherever that might be, because even a house needs a home. 

I might speak to the earth and say, we're cool. I don't need much power, much water, much heat or much cooling. I won't disturb you. I'll be hardly any trouble at all. But should your seasons and ever-changing moods challenge me, I can take what you can dish out.

And I would speak to my future occupant. Perhaps my words would echo those etched on the Statue of Liberty, along the lines of giving me your tired and your poor. But as my modest girth cannot accommodate huddled masses. I would beckon that single soul in a quiet way. I would tell him, no matter where you've been and what sort of burden you've carried, you're safe now. You can close the door behind you and take a rest; you can look out at the stormy world through the windows of my soul (which are actual, not metaphorical windows). A cool drink, a warm meal, a soft bed, the greeting of a neighbor, are all yours. However far you may have wandered, you are no longer a stranger.

And ever grateful to serve my intended purpose, ever thankful to no longer stand empty, I would say, every moment, for whatever the duration of his stay might be, "welcome home."

If these walls could talk, that is what they would say.