There are times when I’m driving around that I notice an old house somewhere and wonder what kind of stories it could tell me.  I see many around our area that are dilapidated and actually disintegrating, and think of the time when it was new.  Who lived there?  How many families grew up there?  What kind of stories could it tell?

There’s this old house on Midway Road, in Fort Pierce, FL.  I wonder how many have driven past on their way to the US 1 highway just short distance away.  Perhaps they cast a quick glance at this old, worn house that was being reclaimed by nature over the past decade or two.  I wonder how many people looked over as they drove to the beach, to work, or on some errands.  It was most likely just an old house, and wonder if they gave it much thought.

What if I told you this was a house of miracles?  No, not the miracle of divine intervention or something of biblical proportions, but a miracle just the same.  This is the house that my Mom grew up in.  The many times we would visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in this old house.  The smell of my grandma’s cooking every time we would come by brings me back to these carefree days.

As a young child, the house was always old to me.  You could feel the dips in the wood, or the creaks in the house as people walk around.  The front steps were cracked and edges worn.  I can still hear the laughs and the frenzy of conversation between my mom, grandma, and aunts, and I can still picture my grandpa soaking it all in from his chair in the living room.  I feel good, and the memories make me reflect and smile.

The miracle of life happened in this house.  Generations lived and died here.  I was blessed to have been a small part of it.  The stories my mom would tell me about her grandparents always made me wish I had been able to meet them.  In a way I did.  The experiences of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and my mom have given me part of their legacy.  The house is the product of their labors, but they gave it life.

The miracle of love happened in this house.  The love of family is very strong within me.  Time was not kind to the house.  Though the house was built with wood, metal, and nail, weather and time always wins.  Though the old house slowly rotted and withered away, the foundation of love and family will forever be strong.

The mixture of emotions swept through me as I saw the photos of the house being torn down.  The physical place is no longer there, probably just a foundation and some rubble.  One more physical tie with my grandparents is gone, but I have their presence always with me.  Their legacy of love and family, passed down through the generations, is within my soul and my personality.

For me, it was a house of miracles.  Miracle of life and love occurred there.  It was the house of my mom and my extended family.  It was the house of my recent ancestors.  The house is now gone, but I still have all the important things.

Indeed, it was a house of miracles.  It may be gone now, but the memories will endure.  For this, I am eternally grateful.