I’m the homemaker here. I decide what art to hang, when to rearrange the furniture and when spaghetti night is.
I don’t mind telling you I’m pretty good at it.
But if I pursue my role as some sort of benevolent despot, making my decisions by my taste and comfort alone and telling my beloveds, “It’s good for you,” then my beloved home is not really beloved for everyone.
In a family, the beloved home reflects everybody to some extent. I’ll willingly admit that my aesthetic is the framework for our decorating scheme, but it’s my husband’s drum and gathered river rocks, the boys’ artwork and Legos and all our many books and our cat’s purr and the Halloween decorations I did not choose and the homework basket bristling with sharpened pencils and the bread cooling on the counter that make it home. Everyone contributes, and when a boy sees his art on the wall or I photograph his Lego creation to go in our Project Life album, he feels his value in this home. When the drum is left out a rhythm might be slapped on it that eases the stress of the workday. The read aloud book on the buffet reminds us of a chapter after supper. There’s a place for what everybody loves.
Bigger than a matter of mere taste, beloved for everyone takes on the beauty and texture of all the personalities held in a home’s walls. And that is a story I can’t tell by myself.