House Artifact

My special artifact in not an expensive vase passed down from generation nor a blanket from birth. It is a yellow jumbo pencil, although it may seem unimportant and common t pencil hold a sentimental value. When i was a young girl my mother and i were grocery shopping at a random store and we passed through the arts and crafts section so i could pick out some last minute items for school and i did. I came across a beautiful notebook and a huge pencil and fast forward to the future my mother bought it for me and i brought to school the next day. Their was a pop quiz in class and i didn't study or know anything even about the topic. But i was too excited to use my new pencil but i tried my pencil and handed it and my teacher graded it and

As you can understand we were in quite a bind, after the six adults talked amongst them self’s they informed us that they had decided to call for help from Colorado Springs, after all, that’s where we were headed any ways. The next call that was made was to get the help of a church youth group we knew up there and see if we could use their two fifteen passenger vans to get us all to our hotel we had reservations for in Colorado Springs.

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

The house sat on the mostly yellow, dead grass of street in Perry Iowa. It of course held memories just like many other houses, but this one tried hard to forget the memories. It was once a yellow like the dead grass it sits upon now. The newly painted blue on the house was a fresh start to the house – making new memories – but just like the ones forgotten they drown in the blue color. It’s an unforgettable house, unforgettable like the memories it produced.

My parents purchased the 3 bedroom, 1.5 bathroom house after falling in love with its wraparound porch and backyard. The house was literally a street over from where we were renting a house that was the size of a postage stamp and with two teenage girls who were wanting more of their own space, this new house had everything. Though the furnace was on its last legs and needed to be turned off when not in use for fear that the house would explode, and that the half bathroom resembled that of a closet with a toilet in it, the sheer fact that this house wasn’t owned by anyone other than my parents made the house a home.

The house was long, white, and had blue shudders. I could always pick out which set of windows out front peeked into my bedroom because of the messy off-white paint stuck to it after years of never being touched up. Inside, so much more was going on than the typical all-American home lead outsiders to believe. Confusion, growth, fear, and lots of aluminum cans.

Three years ago I went to the Cumberland mountains of Tennessee. June came more quickly than I had planned. Before I knew it, it was time to go on my mission trip. Twelve hours of driving seemed like it took forever. During that twelve hour drive, I thought a lot about what I had imagined the week would be like. I knew it would take hard work and an open mind. Those twelve hours finally came to an end, we were in the mountains of Tennessee. I had mixed emotions that was going through as we settled into our cabins and looked around the camp site. It was definitely overwhelming when more church groups arrived, but I had to keep in mind that I needed to have an open mind about the week. Monday morning came in a flash. We fueled up with breakfast before we

7am. That was the time I arrived at the parking lot of the First Presbyterian Church in Woodbridge, New Jersey. The destination was Montreat, North Carolina and I was about to embark on a journey with twelve other kids to attend my first Montreat Youth Conference, a retreat focused on strengthening and shaping youth’s faith. The number of stories I’ve heard of what a week in the black mountain area of North Carolina entailed led me to crave the formation of my own stories. This trip was reputable for being “life changing,” and Montreat was supposedly a “thin place between heaven and earth,” but before going on the trip I was perplexed as to what those words meant and if they were ever going to hold meaning for me. However, after a twelve-hour

It looked like a completely different house. Whenever we were done with the job I went up and knocked on millys door and told her to come outside and take a look. She started balling, at that moment I did not care how much sweat or money was to be made at that job. The look on millys face said it all for me.

Quiet and unassuming, a modest-looking house lies in the middle of a vast, empty plain, located away from the city and close to the pastoral natural world. Separated from the forceful influences of conformity, but still in touch with the surrounding world, this house is free to think, feel, and experience as it pleases. That’s because this house represents more than the entirety of its physical and visual features; it is a metaphor for my memories, ambitions, secrets, feelings, and emotions.

The leather furniture was cracked, and if the chairs were sat upon dust rose about one's thighs. The house seemed to be submerged in shadows as if it also refused to admit the light of the future. It had once been part of the most stylish street in town. Now it was surrounded with the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps. It had obviously become an eyesore compared to once when it had been so beautiful.

(The last suitcase was shoved into the back of the bus, and our next stop would be Winchester, Virginia.) My youth group and I were headed to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania for a mission trip. We would be involved with a program called P-2 mission, which partnered us with a local church, Calvary Christian. During the day we would be doing street outreach and during the night we would be hosting a Vacation Bible School. There was an urgency to have this church up and running because the community around it was crumbling. The church itself was located in a shanty town. Violence was on the rise and the community was in desperate need of a strong foundation. The corruption was spreading so rapidly that the church’s basketball court was becoming a place where sexual predators would prey on young children.

Jeanne’s thirty year old son, my cousin, Walter, had a terrible accident and was in a coma for ten days on full life support. The doctors basically told her she needed to make the decision to take her only son off life support because they had never seen anybody recover from the excessive amount of brain damage he suffered from. Walter was not a Christian, but that did not stop my aunt from praying for him continuously. She informed the doctors that they were going to see something unbelievable and they did. As Walter deified all odds and began to recover my aunt transformed her life so she could transform his. She left her life in Maryland and moved to Denver to help Walter through his months of recovery, and she started a revival in his life. She showed him Jesus and preformed one selfless act after another all in obedience to God, where she truly displayed what it means to be a revivalist. This story is an example of opportunities everybody has in their lives to live out the meaning of being a

In spring of 2016, my youth group and I began planning a trip to a neighboring city. This wasn’t just any trip however, we were going on a mission. Each of us there were bound and determined to

I knew this place was not the greatest, but it was better than what we previously had. My mother always knew how to make the best of things, so she and my stepfather decided to refurbish the entire apartment. The best part about it was that we did it with our very own hands. Everything was perfect. The tiles by the door, kitchen, and dining room were white with a splash of peach and gray. The granite stone on the kitchen counter top matched perfectly with the tiles. The carpet and couches were replaced to make the place look brighter and full of life. The wood on the wall touching only the living room was also replaced with glass to make the room look and feel larger than it actually was. The rooms were nicely decorated with the same granite, tile, and carpet. My room was full of dcor of all my childhood memories; stuffed animals, books, and school awards were dispersed throughout the room. Though we only lived there for four years, I keep the memories and love that home gave me deep in my heart.