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[I wish I had a photo of this house, but alas, I don't. Perhaps I'll be able to take one sometime or happen upon an old one. When I do, I'll include it in this post.]

On the plains of Iowa stands a two-story house that belongs to my grandparents, my mom's mom and dad. While we were driving across the country back in 2009, my wife saw it for the first time.

It had been at least 10 years since my last visit, and I'd forgotten how much I loved that old house. Like Chesterton, I suppose that I've sinned and grown old. That house was always full of joy, maybe because Gram and Gramps had things that we didn't have in Wisconsin (where I was born), things like chicken-and-stars soup and Mr. Pibb cola. When I was a very young child, the entire family would go there for Christmas. It was like a giant slumber party, with cousins spreading out sleeping bags in various rooms throughout the house.

My wife and I slept in the same room my brother and I had slept in years and years before, in the same twin beds on opposite sides of the room. The same pictures were on the same pink walls, the same tree outside the window, the same creaky door, the same crooked driveway, the same feelings of unfamiliarity and longing that came with living far away from this place. Everything was the same, except Gramps. Gram had weathered the years like the stalwart German that she is; her face didn't reveal her eighty years. But Gramps ... well, Gramps was old. He came down the stairs for breakfast then had to sit in his chair and rest for half an hour. In his midwestern way, he "asked" me to help repair a leaky gutter that had caused some problems the previous winter.

"There's this one spot in the gutter leaking real bad down onto the sidewalk. It made a terrible icy spot last winter. I don't know how I'm going to fix it, because I can't get the ladder up there anymore."

"You know, Gramps, I'd be happy to do that for you." I gave the dutiful mid-western response.

"Well, I would really appreciate it. I've been worried sick about how I was going to get that done."

So I helped him, of course, especially since the gutter was twenty feet up in the air and Gramps' wooden extension ladder was old, rickety, and very heavy. Gramps had always been a fix-it man, and he couldn't bring himself to let me handle the ladder myself. His hands quaked with age as he feebly grappled with the ladder. I was afraid he would hurt himself, so I assured him that I could move it alone; but he kept on going anyways. Eventually the gutter got repaired, and the ladder got stowed back under the house, and we had a great time doing it all, and nobody was injured. [Thanks be to God.]

At last, we all sat down to supper in their wonderfully nostalgic Craftsman-style dining room filled with the latest photos of all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As always at Gram's house, the food was plentiful and good, in the Iowa way. I think we took hands (although I don't remember exactly) and bowed our heads to ask God's blessing on the meal. When the old man prayed, his voice trembled, just on the verge of breaking, the same as his rugged hands. He spoke slowly and in mumbling tones, but his words shook with love.

I had almost forgotten, but now I remember that house - an old house, tall and square, full of joy and memory.