The inspiration for this poem is Truman's months-long obsession with houses. What are you drawing, Truman? House. What are you building, Truman? House. He's two and our home probably feels like his whole world. But I can make a metaphor out of anything so it also feels like the genius of childhood, recognizing how essential feeling "at home" is for our happiness, and how innate the craving for home in our understanding of love, of God. Making our house Truman and Johanna's home continues to be the joy of a lifetime.
Sometimes his blocks are unsteady, built for speed
but even the tower in Pisa began its days straight.
It was one of his first perfectly-formed words - House
His voice confident, powerful, small, and yet, great.
He builds slowly when it suits him, when the day feels easy
When the ground is solid, the air warm, houses are pure joy.
Sometimes it is daddy's house, mama's house, rarely sister's
He is an architect, an explorer, a destroyer, a little boy.
What shape a house takes when its creation is delight
When the beams lean against the hips of a mother
What comfort warps itself into these spaces, these sturdy and less sturdy walls
When the hand that shapes them crafts only life, only love, only color.
What a gorgeous, Godly world it could be if he built it
All passion, joy, hilarity, and the "watch Mama" yelled loud
How lovely a seat for Jesus, for Esther, for David, for Mary
All welcome, all laboring, all celebrating, all marveling in Truman's house.
