Weather or Not

Peace

/pēs/

noun

Definition of peace:

1.freedom from disturbance; tranquility

“Home is a shelter from storms – all sorts of storms.”

–      William J. Bennett 

When I was a kid, I loved two things and hated one. I loved building treehouses and talking in double-negatives. I hated scary stories. This is a story of all three.

Growing up, I didn’t just love building treehouses. I loved building all kinds of treehouses. Large. Small. Single story. Multistory. Ones with rope ladders. Others with booby-traps. From the ages of eight to thirteen, I spent more time in trees than I did on the ground. At one point, my neighbor, brother and I decided to connect a few smaller structures and build what was affectionately termed “The Monstrosity.”

It started as a simple blueprint, and developed over the months and years into a series of platforms and enclosures connected by makeshift bridges and ziplines roughly the size of a little league baseball field. Large blue tarps, old kitchen appliances, and car tires helped to complete the motif. It was like an Ewok village but trashier. It was a sight. But by no means was it a sight for sore eyes. In fact, The Monstrosity was such an eyesore to the neighbors that one of them called the city to make us take it down. And we did (it’s tough getting a building permit when you’re behind on your pre-algebra homework). But long before my eyes were opened to heavy-handed bureaucracy and small-town tyranny, my buddy and I did an overnighter in the north wing of our aerial compound. Or, at least we tried.

It was a pleasant evening. The summer air was warm and slightly humid, which made the sleeping bags almost unnecessary. We brought with us everything a couple of twelve-year-olds could need for a night away from home. Pillows. Flashlights. Cheetos. Mountain Dew. Discman. Pogs. An extension cord running from a nearby house powered a single lightbulb, which gave off more than enough light for the low-clearance sleeping space positioned between the bike garage and the main floor (eat your heart out Pete Nelson).

As the night grew old, the sounds of Audio Adrenaline and Goo Goo Dolls were replaced by the sounds of frogs and crickets—a lullaby that to this day remains a preferred sleep aid second only to that of the gentle tones and running commentary of Bob Ross—melatonin incarnate. But our decision to choose that particular night for our overnighter wasn’t just a happy little accident. It was a mistake.       

It’s difficult to know at exactly what time the evening turned from Mary Pope Osborne to R.L. Stine, but the switch was sudden. I woke up completely drenched. Rainwater came from the ceiling like a triggered sprinkler system. Everything unfortunate enough to be in the treehouse was soaked—like “Fuller, go easy on the Pepsi” soaked. I swiped my hand across the water-logged carpet until it found my flashlight. I turned it on and assessed the situation.

“Yep, it’s raining alright.”

With futile abandon, I scrambled to find the leak. But as I twisted the head of the flashlight to focus the light’s beam, I realized it wasn’t just water that had made its way inside the treehouse.  

From my lying position, I watched a large banana slug slowly move across the ceiling not more than three feet above my face (the thick trail of slime confirmed actual movement). A wolf spider raced atop it and back into the darkness. I quickly turned on the overhead light. Spiders, centipedes, and slugs of all kinds crawled and slithered just above my head. It was Goosebumps meets Are You Afraid of the Dark meets Creepy Crawlers—a three-way intersection of adolescent terror.

I don’t know if it was the wolf spider or a deadly stream of rainwater, but something ran across my neck and down my shirt. I convulsed and flopped around like a trout out of water. The subtle commotion woke my friend.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re gonna die!”

Now, I’ve never been prone to hysterics, or to being overly-dramatic, so I’m glad my response was neither. We scrambled down the ladder, braved the storm, and made it to his house physically unscathed and, more importantly, alive. The safety and warmth of my friend’s house was a stark contrast to the terror and certain death of the treehouse. I know that correlation doesn’t imply causation. But maybe under certain circumstances it does. I’m not saying I saved my buddy’s life that night. But I’m not not saying I did either.  

I think it’s safe to say that we’re a little obsessed with “home”—and not just because I spent a good portion of my formative years trying to build them between tree branches. We have shows like Fixer-Upper, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and Property Brothers—just three titles of an estimated 108 home remodel shows brought to us from HGTV alone—that cater to our growing infatuation with hardwood, shiplap, and subway tile. And then there’re networks like DIY, Magnolia, Bravo, and Netflix, all with programming dedicated to some form of reno, flow, and feng shui (coincidentally, also the names of my three pet guinea pigs in grade school). But it certainly doesn’t stop there.

We want to be home for the holidays, particularly home for Christmas, because eventually, we get a little homesick.

When we eat, we prefer home cooking or at least something homegrown. But of course, in everything moderation, so we don’t eat ourselves out of house and home.

We say, “Make yourself at home” to make others feel comfortable. And when comfortable we say, “It feels like home.”

We have homeroom and homecoming, unless we’re homeschooled.

When what goes around finally comes around, it comes home to roost; but we need to work it out because what never stands is a house divided.

When we want to add emphasis to our point, we hammer it home; and when a point is received, it can really hit home.

When we hit a home run while playing at home, it’s probably because of the home-field advantage. And if we don’t get our way, or the game’s unfair, we take our ball and go home.

We’re out ‘til the cows come home. We look at our phone’s home screen. And when it’s late, we say, “I’d better be getting home.”

We say the lights are on but nobody’s home, and that these are the ones not worth writing home about.

We have Majority and Minority Leaders of the House. Moms and dads who are “stay-at-home.” And for those of us without an address, we’re simply known as “homeless.”

Home is where the heart is, so when we’re away, we find our home away from home.

We may live in a foster home, a halfway home, or a retirement home. A group home, or a nursing home. But at the end of the day, all is equal when we inevitably find ourselves checked in at the same home: the funeral home.

For better or for worse, Dorothy was right. There really is no place like home.

Sure, we’re a little infatuated with “home,” but it’s for good reasons. It’s that “shelter from all sorts of storms” where we find, or at least hope to find, “inner” peace from a chaotic outside world.

Professor and Association for Psychological Science Fellow Dr. Frank McAndrew writes, “Our physical surroundings play an important role in creating meaning and organization in our lives; much of how we view our lives and much of what we have become depends on where we’ve lived, and the experiences we’ve had there.” But like all shelters, a peaceful home doesn’t build itself.

Board certified family physician Dr. Wayne Jonas writes, “Many people don’t realize the extent to which their surroundings affect their ability to find peace, rest, and vitality.” Jonas encourages, “See what you can do to improve the things that you have the ability to change,” and suggests trying the following:

1. Integrate nature. Research shows that being in nature promotes cognitive development and that “green views” promote self-control behavior in children. In a review of the research, Gregory Bratman, PhD and colleagues found that contact with nature is also associated with increases in happiness, subjective well-being, positive affect, positive social interactions and a sense of meaning and purpose in life, as well as decreases in mental distress. Natural light, views of nature, and houseplants are a few ideas to get the mossy rock rolling.

2. Decorate with meaning. Consider filling your living space with meaningful items—items that remind you of your likes, values, and positive memories. Photographs of family, friends, and adventures; religious symbols; and personally-created or collected artwork are good places to start. And don’t overlook the power of color. Choose paint colors to suit your mood and personality. Reds, oranges, and yellows tend to energize and stimulate, whereas blues, greens, and violets can evoke feelings of peace and restfulness.

3. Simplify your life. Decluttering and maintaining a clean home can have a positive mental and physical impact. Author and researcher Dr. Alice Boyes agrees. She writes that, among other positive benefits, tidying up creates a sense of confidence, reduces anxiety, and can reduce relationship and family tension (I’ve heard half of all major wars began with a child’s messy room). But shelter-necessary storms don’t always come by way of messy floors or a gaggle of dust bunnies. So, let’s also be mindful of the kinds of content we allow to enter into our homes, and safeguard against the negative influences they may bring. Parental controls, limited social media, and watching news in moderation can simplify your life perhaps more than you think.

But should the storm make it inside, and tensions rise, try to restore peace as soon possible by resolving conflict through “fair fighting” (a concept I think even Lester Holt could agree with). We fight fair by owning our emotions, discussing one topic at a time (stick to the issue at hand), remaining civil (no yelling or degrading language), using “I” statements, taking turns to speak (no stonewalling), and, if possible, coming to a compromise. But maybe even before all of that, we first consider the wisdom of Jeff Foxworthy who said, “If everybody in this house lives where it's God first, friends and family second and you third, we won't ever have an argument.” Fair enough.

I ran away from that failed night in the north wing of The Monstrosity a little wiser, and with only a mild case of arachnophobia. I learned that it’s not a matter of if the storm comes, but when. And that when it does, it may come without warning. Our ability to weather the wind, rain, and onslaught of slugs (metaphorical or literal) largely depends on our preparation. So, let’s be prepared. Buy a plant, paint a wall, and get a Rumba. And if after all that the roof starts leaking, shine a light, find the source, and fight fair.

Psalm 91:1-6

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday” (NIV).