This blog about the farmhouse in Nebraska that was “my home” will be written in two parts. Part 2 will be posted on November 1.

Several weeks ago I returned to Nebraska for Nebraska Wesleyan’s (my university) 125^th anniversary. Since then I’ve been thinking about the special farmhouse where I grew up near Clatonia. The house had a large old fashioned kitchen (my living room in Manhattan could fit inside it), lots of oak woodwork, a brick fireplace, and a sunroom filled with my mother’s lovely ferns. In the cold winter months (and trust me, winter is very cold in Nebraska), we heated only the rooms where we spent most of our waking hours – the kitchen, dining room, bathroom. The trip down the hall to my sister Shirley’s and my bedroom was icy cold – you could see your breath. But Mother always had a copper hot water “bottle” ready to heat up our beds. We had no TV, no AC, no Wi-Fi, no modern furnace (ours burned coal and corn cobs). But we had porches, a magical attic, and vegetables and flowers from our garden on the table. Most importantly there was a huge dose of respect, faith, hope, and love that permeated our home.

When I think about that farmhouse on the prairie, I realize there is a difference between a house and a home. As the dictionary points out, a house serves as a place to protect us from the elements and to hold “our stuff.” It’s possible to live in a house that doesn’t feel like a home. But to qualify as a home is different: it needs to be a place where you are comfortable, where you belong, where you can feel peace.

There are many stories about my Nebraska farmhouse that was built by my grandparents. When my family moved off the farm, we sold it to another family. At some point – like many people in Nebraska – that family decided to move into town. So the house was no longer a “home” for anyone. Then a family from Wilber bought the house, courageously jacked it up off its foundation, put it on a platform on wheels, and moved it slowly across nine miles of challenges – including electrical wires and getting stuck – to a farm outside Wilber.

Years later, when I returned to Nebraska, I wanted to see my farmhouse. I knew it had been sold to a family in Wilber, so I drove a rental car through every street in Wilber. But it wasn’t there. Finally I stopped in the only place that was open – the local tavern (a place my mother would have advised me not to stop in). When I asked the bartender if he knew of a Clatonia farmhouse that was moved to Wilber, he didn’t. But he asked all the people in the bar if they knew of such a house. Someone did. He thought a Mager family had bought it. Soon everyone was gathered around me as we looked up the phone number. Two Magers in the book. One of the men dialed the first number and handed the phone to me. “Hello,” I muttered, when a woman answered the phone. “My name is Joy Haupt Carol, and my family lived outside Clatonia in an old farmhouse. I’ve been told that a Mager family owns the house. Do you know anything about that?” “Well, yes,” she answered, “I’m standing in that house.”

I was thrilled. Although Cheri Mager said the house was “a bit of a mess” and was being worked on, we decided I would go there. I was so excited that I overshot the road to the house by a mile. When I finally found the right road and came to the top of a hill, I gasped as I looked down at my beautiful home. And it was surrounded by a lovely vineyard. A vineyard in Nebraska! Around my home! What an amazing gift!  (To be continued November 1)

Beloved God, we thank you for making our hearts your home. Sometimes we live in places that don’t always feel like home to us. We ask that you will bless the places where we live, so that these places will truly become homes. May we welcome and bless all who enter our homes. Now we welcome you and thank you. Amen.

Joy Carol
www.joycarol.com