The Empty House at Eight

My boys,

At 7:42, the house was loud.

One of you couldn't find a shoe.

Someone was still eating.

A cabinet door was open.

There was a cup on the counter, a towel on the floor, and a backpack that should have already been on somebody's shoulders.

I said, "Come on, boys," more times than I needed to.

Then the door opened.

Three voices moved through it.

The door closed.

And by eight...

The house was empty.

I stood in the kitchen with my coffee.

The refrigerator hummed.

That was the loudest thing in the room.

There were crumbs beneath one of the chairs.

A spoon had been left in a bowl.

One stool was pulled farther from the counter than the others.

I almost pushed it back in.

I didn't.

I walked through the living room.

A blanket was twisted on the couch.

One small sock was lying near the stairs.

I picked it up.

Then for some reason...

I put it back down.

Upstairs, one bedroom door was half open.

Morning light came through the window and landed across an unmade bed.

A book was upside down beside the pillow.

There was a little indentation where a head had been a few hours earlier.

I stood in the doorway.

No reason.

Just stood there.

Down the hall, another room.

Another bed.

Another collection of small things that seemed ordinary because I see them every day.

A toy beneath a dresser.

A shirt hanging halfway out of a drawer.

A drawing left on a desk.

Nothing valuable.

Everything valuable.

I went back downstairs.

8:07.

Seven minutes had passed.

The coffee was still warm.

The house wasn't sad.

It was simply waiting.

By afternoon, the door would open again.

Shoes would land where they shouldn't.

Someone would want food.

Someone would tell me a story without starting at the beginning.

Someone would interrupt someone else.

I would probably ask you to lower your voices.

And the house would be full again.

For now...

I sat down.

I listened to the quiet.

And I thought about a morning somewhere in my future when eight o'clock will come...

And nobody will be coming home that afternoon.

The beds will stay made.

The shoes will be somewhere else.

The backpacks will be gone.

And this quiet that visits me for a few hours now...

Will stay.

So I left the stool crooked.

I left the blanket where it was.

I left the little sock beside the stairs.

God willing, I still have time to be inconvenienced by all of it.

I love you.

— Baba

Question:

What part of your life feels ordinary today only because you have not yet had to miss it?

Moral:

Some of God's greatest gifts arrive disguised as noise, mess, interruption, and routine. Notice them before the house becomes quiet.

This story reflects real experiences and philosophies behind Backyard Brew. It is shared to inspire perspective and intention.

Author: R. Solace