The House Well Built

With a finger carefully pointed at the desecrated ruins, the father spoke to his son. In quiet reverence, head tilted to the side, the father sought to answer those troubling questions of “when” and “why.” The boy glanced, with eyes darting, first to his father then to the ancient rubble on the hill and back again. Listen well my son, the older man said:

“Once a building stood here . . . a wondrous creation crafted by many loving hands. It started on bedrock and bit by bit the stones were placed, with careful attention to minute details, in accordance to the overall plan. That master plan was known only by one, the architect, yet still, he let each person know his duties and no questions were asked.

“Slowly the building took form but it was years in the making . . .the going was not easy for construction was halted in winter months and vandals would come from time to time to plunder the work already completed.

“Still”, the man mused, “the building came to being, already holding a history of labor and love. Its shell finished- craftsmen came to render final touches. Woodworkers, blacksmiths, carpenters . . . all lent their hands . . . creating a vision of beauty on display for the world.

Many travelers sought refuge here. They would come, weary from their journeys, hoping to find solace and peace. They came wanting a few precious hours of laughter, to be reunited with loved ones, or to rest in the comfort of warming blazes or food and drink.

“The building’s life became rich. Its history was vibrant with the echoes of so many people passing in and out through its door. And as the seasons passed, it saw its lean times as well as those times when the abundance of love and laughter within the walls stretched it to bursting.

“As the years sped by, the building started becoming a bit shabby and worn. Its carpets threadbare and floorboards creaking, it was content with its place in history knowing it had had meaning in its becoming. It was at peace knowing it had eased so many aching feet on the hassocks within or helped a few poor souls find rest for a while, both those with coins and without.

“When finally its walls began decaying, it did not mind so much as those floors began splintering into sawdust. Heavily laid inside the plaster slowly crumbling was the quiet knowledge its purpose had been fulfilled and completed – the time had come to end the existence it had known.”

The man paused, gathering his breath slowly as he gazed intently at his son. With words tenderly spoken He continued, “This, my son, is a story I give to you as a gift. Remember it well when times seem far too harsh to bear or when running away from your problems becomes an increasingly enticing thought.”

The House Well Built


Joined February 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

A father tells his son about the life of a house.

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