For the past two weeks, I’ve been telling you stories that began with a little house in Headrick, Oklahoma.
First came The Water Wagon—the story of a little boy named Merle who came to my grandparents’ house for water.
Then last week I told you about The Little House in Headrick, the house my great-grandfather and granddad built and the pieces of it that are still being treasured by our family today.
I told you there was one more story.
This one is about why those stories matter so much to me.
My grandparents eventually left Headrick and moved to Altus before I was born. Their house in Altus is the one I knew.
And I loved that house.
Not because there was anything particularly fancy about it, but because of the way I felt when I was there.
Safe.
Loved.
Like I belonged.
My grandparents were my safe place, and I think somewhere along the way, the way I felt in their home became part of my definition of what “home” was supposed to be.
Years later, I married my husband and found something wonderfully familiar in his family.
His parents lived in a small frame house on the edge of town. They had raised four boys there—my husband and his three brothers. The boys shared bedrooms. The family shared one bathroom.
What they had wasn’t fancy.
But they were content.
After we married, we would go to his parents’ house on Friday nights and play games.
There was something about those evenings that reminded me of my grandparents’ house.
It was that same feeling.
Family gathered together. Laughter. Ordinary Friday nights spent around a table.
It was home.
And then there was Merle.
When I heard his story all those years later, I learned about the life he had chosen to live. He lived simply and gave generously to the Lord’s work.
That stayed with me.
Not because I thought everyone needed to live exactly like Merle. And not because I believe there’s anything wrong with having a beautiful home or nice things.
I’ve had those things.
My husband and I once lived in a beautiful custom-built home with high ceilings and a big entryway. I loved that house too.
But over time, something in me changed.
Or maybe I just began to understand something that had been growing in me for a long time.
I didn’t need a big house to have a beautiful life.
When my husband and I eventually downsized, we chose a small, older home.
It needed some love, and we’ve slowly made it our own.
It wasn’t because small houses are better than big houses.
It was because this house fit the life we wanted to live.
A simpler life.
A life where enough really could be enough.
A home where the people inside mattered more than the things inside.
Looking back now, I can see that our decision didn’t begin when we started looking at houses.
It began in my grandparents’ home, where I learned what it felt like to be safe and loved.
It grew around a table on Friday nights in my husband’s parents’ little frame house, where I was reminded that contentment has very little to do with how much space you have.
And it was strengthened by the story of a little boy with a water wagon who grew into a man who chose to live simply and give generously.
Maybe that’s why I love our little old house as much as I do.
It doesn’t look like my grandparents’ house.
It doesn’t look like my husband’s parents’ house.
And it certainly isn’t the little house in Headrick.
But somehow, it feels connected to all of them.
Because home, I’ve learned, isn’t measured in square feet.
It’s measured in the love that lives there.
And maybe the best kind of home isn’t the one that impresses people when they walk through the door.
Maybe it’s the one where they know they’re welcome once they do.
Choosing Home
What Home Came to Mean to MeFor the past two weeks, I’ve been telling you stories that began with a little house in Headrick, Oklahoma.First came The Water Wagon—the story…
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