How she does it is beyond me. Sunday dinner with the family is always a raucous affair when the entire crew is present and accounted for. The kids spread out to the back room and spare bedroom while we clear the table and do up the dishes. Conversations shoot back and forth, criss-crossing the room until two by two, the kids gather their children and head for home. Linda and I have a short while before it's time to head back to church to teach bass in SOTA, our school of the arts.
When I return around seven in the evening, it is to a home warmed by the fire, scented by Linda's candles, with Christmas decorations starting to take their places from the back room to the living room. It's a good place to come home to. I'm not the only one who thinks so. Guests inevitably comment on how warm and welcoming our home is. Here's a hint: it's not me. Linda has a way with decor, but I don't think it's the decor that attracts the people. It's her heart. That's what makes our house a home, a place I always want to come at the end of my day. I am grateful for it, but even more for the woman who makes it what it is.
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