The House In My Heart
This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home.
By: cameron pien
They often ask me if I miss paradise,
if I yearn for the suspended summer and languorous leisure
of the island where I learned to stretch my limbs and lungs,
but truth be told, Hawaii is not my home.
In my heart, there is a house constructed of iridescent bricks
whose insides swirl within the confines of their borders,
each block a person I love, a screen displaying memories
of my mother and father’s embrace,
as warm as the sun that bathes the shells lounging in the sand of Yokohama Bay.
Of Alexis’s smile arising from the horizon of her lips,
as radiant as the saffron sunrise over Hunakai Beach.
Of the way Lyndsy’s loyalty stands steadfast,
as immovable as the boulders bordering Makapu’u Lighthouse.
Of Ella laughing as she pulls me onto the dance floor,
as jubilant as the birds chirping in the woods of Manoa Valley.
Of Maia singing as she strums her guitar,
as melodious as the mellifluous waves caressing the shore at Three Tables.
Home is the verdant foliage of the Ko’olau Mountains and
the idyllic view from Lanikai Pillbox, but more than that
home is my brother dribbling his basketball,
my sister climbing up the stairs on serene Saturday mornings,
Megan’s go-to matcha order, Tris’s advice over brunch,
Sydney’s white 4Runner, Ali’s fingers dancing over ivory piano keys,
Kylie’s reflection in the passenger seat window, Lily’s road trip playlist–
My home is built of people, and this house resides within me wherever I go.
Yet no house can stand without a foundation,
and mine rests not on shifting sand or miry mud
but on a person, immutable and infallible,
a being who constructed the universe with His words
and who laid each brick of my home.
Before trusting God to be my cornerstone,
I once believed I could build my house
not just of mortal relationships but on them, crying out,
You are my only respite from the bitter, biting cold.
And when people were not the panaceas
I erroneously expected them to be,
when rough edges and words scraped my palms
and my own serrated surface slyly siphoned innocent blood,
I wandered through the rubble of my crumbling home, for
we are all too broken to mend each other’s fractures and fissures
and people can be bricks but never foundations.
We are inconstant, as easily displaced as dirt during an earthquake
His faithfulness and love are immutable.
The Lord rebuilt my home on His foundation,
and I realized all that I loved about humanity
was simply a reflection of Him, for we are made in His image,
and all that is pure and lovely about us
is merely a shadow of His consummate reality.
When my home is grounded on the gospel,
His grace washes stains from the walls,
His love tenderly twines through the crevices between bricks
in a luscious abundance of emerald vines and vibrant blossoms,
for we love because He first loved us.
He unrolls the scroll of the gospel, pointing at the lines and curves
of the blueprint He has given me for the way I should love.
In my heart, there is a house.
Each brick is a gift from Him, for He is the Architect,
the Foundation, the Mortar, the Master.
He opens the door and ushers me inside,
and I find everlasting refuge in the arms of my Father.