By Maria Khell

Recently, as I looked at the books in my home, I began to think about the homes inside my books. There are few things I love better than the sight of a shelf of volumes by my favourite authors: preferably colourful and beautifully designed, with gilded titles that glint to catch my eye. Lately I’ve also been charmed by little book-nooks on Pinterest -– miniature models that can be lit up and tucked between volumes in a library, giving the effect that a tiny world has mysteriously been revealed amid the bindings. They usually depict streets, houses, or rooms from classic tales. The idea has stayed in my mind and improvised itself constantly, making me imagine my own books coming to life on the shelf.  

Since there are enough literary residences to collect into a mega-city, I’d like to present a short tour of only a few. The sole justification I give for these visits is the experience of rest and refuge that these passages provided when I first read them as a child. Their appeal has never faded, and to this day, there’s a thrill when I encounter places and people ‘in real life’ which embody the same spirit.

‘On The Banks of Plum Creek’ by Laura Ingalls Wilder

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s series of autobiographical “Little House” books are full of exquisite details of child’s memories of her family and the homes they create. One of the most admirable women ever depicted in writing, to my mind, is ‘Ma’, Laura’s mother Caroline. Gentle, creative, wise, loving, hardworking, she is a courageous and good woman. Life is full of challenges for the Ingalls family, with their homes often proving anchoring places of safety amid harsh natural environments. Caroline’s steady presence continually bridges difficult changes with peace and strength.

‘On the Banks of Plum Creek’ recounts a memorable episode where Laura’s father goes to town for supplies and is absent for days from the onset of a blizzard. Ma keeps the farm running and the children safe and comforted as the storm rages outside, and burns a lamp by the window for her husband. As they all wait, Laura observes her mother’s behavior closely, and realizes that the bright hope she holds up for her daughters is fueled by great inner strength.

 Ma held Carrie, and Laura and Mary crowded into the rocking-chair, too. They heard the wild voices of the storm and felt Jack’s eyes shining, till Ma said: “Better run along to bed, girls. The sooner you’re asleep, the sooner it will be morning.” She kissed them good-night, and Mary climbed the attic ladder. But Laura stopped halfway up. Ma was warming Carrie’s nightgown by the oven. Laura asked her, low, “Pa did stay in town, didn’t he?” Ma did not look up. She said cheerfully, “Why, surely, Laura. No doubt he and Mr. Fitch are sitting by the stove now, telling stories and cracking jokes.” Laura went on to bed. Deep in the night she woke and saw lamplight shining up through the ladder-hole. She crept out of bed into the cold, and kneeling on the floor she looked down. Ma sat alone in her chair. Her head was bowed and she was very still, but her eyes were open, looking at her hands clasped in her lap. The lamp was shining in the window. For a long time Laura looked down. Ma did not move. The lamp went on shining. The storm howled and hooted after things that fled shrieking through the enormous dark around the frightened house. At last Laura crept silently back to bed and lay shivering …

After four days of their father’s absence, he suddenly reappears. On his journey home, disoriented in the driving snow, he had fallen into a hollow gully and was trapped until the snowstorm ended. The whole time, he was very close to the house, but did not realize this until he dug himself out. The family reunion is joyous, as he tells them how he survived in the cold thanks to the warm new buffalo coat he had bought in town, and by reluctantly eating some of the Christmas treats he had been bringing back for the family. The book ends with heartfelt gratitude for Pa’s return and a hopeful outlook for the year ahead, and the joyful rhythms inside the home counter the chaos of the storms outside. All losses of the year -– big and small -- seem fully absorbed and worthwhile in the bigger picture of their family life.

 

The wind was screaming fiercer and louder outside. Snow whirled swish-swishing against the windows. But Pa’s fiddle sang in the warm, lamp-lighted house. The dishes made small clinking sounds as Mary set the table. Carrie rocked herself in the rocking-chair and Ma went gently between the table and the stove. In the middle of the table she set a milk-pan full of beautiful brown baked beans, and now from the oven she took the square baking-pan full of golden corn-bread. The rich brown smell and the sweet golden smell curled deliciously together in the air. Pa’s fiddle laughed and sang … Everything was so good. Grasshoppers were gone, and next year Pa could harvest the wheat. Tomorrow was Christmas, with oyster stew for dinner. There would be no presents and no candy, but Laura could not think of anything she wanted and she was so glad that the Christmas candy had helped to bring Pa safe home again. “Supper is ready,” Ma said in her gentle voice. Pa laid the fiddle in its box. He stood up and looked around at them all. His blue eyes shone at them. “Look, Caroline,” he said, “how Laura’s eyes are shining."

 

This incident reminds me of all the blessings of homecoming -– the relief when family members return after long absences, joy when I am in the company of those who know and love me, and gratitude for those who steadily and quietly hold everything and everyone together.  

‘The Lord of the Rings’ by J.R.R. Tolkien

Tolkien’s classic saga contains many wonderful scenes that make a reader fall in love with home and hearth -– from the comfort-filled hobbit holes to the far outpost of Rivendell, the Last Homely House, and from the hearty and gracious welcome at Farmer Maggot’s table, to the ethereal aesthetics of Lothlorien. One doorway I’d like to peek through here always held a special delight for me. After Tom Bombadil rescues the hobbits from Old Man Willow in the treacherous Old Forest, he takes them to his own home and welcomes them as guests. They enter a dwelling as fresh as spring, and as refined as crystal clear water.

 

The four hobbits stepped over the wide stone threshold, and stood still, blinking. They were in a long low room, filled with the light of lamps swinging from the beams of the roof; and on the table of dark polished wood stood many candles, tall and yellow, burning brightly.

In a chair, at the far side of the room facing the outer door, sat a woman. Her long yellow hair rippled down her shoulders; her gown was green, green as young reeds, shot with silver like beads of dew; and her belt was of gold, shaped like a chain of flag-lilies set with the pale-blue eyes of forget-me-nots. About her feet in wide vessels of green and brown earthenware, white water-lilies were floating, so that she seemed to be enthroned in the midst of a pool.

"Enter, good guests!" she said, and as she spoke they knew it was her clear voice they had heard singing. They came a few timid steps further into the room, and began to bow low, feeling strangely surprised and awkward, like folk that, knocking at a cottage door to beg for a drink of water, have been answered by a fair young elf-queen clad in living flowers. But before they could say anything, she sprang lightly up and over the lily-bowls, and ran laughing towards them; and as she ran her gown rustled softly like the wind in the flowering borders of a river.

"Come dear folk!" she said, taking Frodo by the hand. "Laugh and be merry! I am Goldberry, daughter of the River."  Then lightly she passed them and closing the door she turned her back to it, with her white arms spread out across it. "Let us shut out the night!" she said. "For you are still afraid, perhaps, of mist and tree-shadows and deep water, and untame things. Fear nothing! For tonight you are under the roof of Tom Bombadil."

 

 Everything within the home radiates beauty that ripples outwards from Goldberry, along with a vital goodness enlivening everything around her, and counsel that drives away shadows.

 

… Before long, washed and refreshed, the hobbits were seated at the table, two on each side, while at either end sat Goldberry and the Master. It was a long and merry meal. Though the hobbits ate, as only famished hobbits can eat, there was no lack.

 … At last Tom and Goldberry rose and cleared the table swiftly. The guests were commanded to sit quiet, and were set in chairs, each with a footstool to his tired feet. There was a fire in the wide hearth before them, and it was burning with a sweet smell, as if it were built of apple-wood. When everything was set in order, all the lights in the room were put out, except one lamp and a pair of candles at each end of the chimney-shelf. Then Goldberry came and stood before them, holding a candle; and she wished them each a good night and deep sleep.

"Have peace now," she said, "until the morning! Heed no nightly noises! For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and wind off the hill-top. Good night!" She passed out of the room with a glimmer and a rustle. The sound of her footsteps was like a stream falling gently away downhill over stones in the quiet of night.

 

The hobbits wake with night terrors like children, and each hobbit is lulled quickly back to sleep as they remember Goldberry’s words.

I’ve found restorative power in the mere presence of people who exude a culture of life and have a spirit that cherishes and protects. There are times when I have gone to bed with fears that knock at my heart, but that are chased away by the deep awareness that I am in a house of prayer with a blessing upon it.

‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ by C.S. Lewis

Lewis is a master of worlds-within-worlds in The Chronicles of Narnia, where the homely warmth of the Beavers’ house stands outlined against the frigid backdrop of Narnia’s landscape under the rule of the White Witch. These endearing characters are unlikely revolutionaries, prepared to go against the power of the Witch. A picture of the everyday life of the Beavers is quickly established by a scan of their dwelling and the tools housed there: it’s busy and purposeful and prepared for anything. Details furnish the page like items filling a dolls house.

 

“Here we are, Mrs Beaver,” said Mr Beaver, “I’ve found them. Here are the Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve” – and they all went in.

The first thing Lucy noticed as she went in was a burring sound, and the first thing she saw was a kind-looking old she-beaver sitting in the corner with a thread in her mouth working busily at her sewing machine, and it was from it that the sound came. She stopped her work and got up as soon as the children came in. “So you’ve come at last!” sha said, holding out both her wrinkled old paws. “At last! To think I should live to see this day! The potatoes are boiling and the kettle’s singing and I daresay, Mr Beaver, you’ll get us some fish.” “That I will,” said Mr Beaver …”

… Lucy thought the Beavers had a very snug little home though it was not at all like Mr Tumnus’s cave. There were no books or pictures, and instead of beds there were bunks, like on board ship, built into the wall. And there were hams and strings of onions hanging from the roof, and against the walls were gumboots and oilskins and hatchets and pairs of shears and spades and trowels and things for carrying mortar in and fishing-rods and fishing-nets and sacks. And the cloth on the table, though very clean, was very rough.

 

I’ve always particularly relished Lewis’s enthusiastic descriptions of food, especially the robust charm of everyday comforts like here.

 

… You can think how good the new-caught fish smelled while they were frying and how the hungry children longed for them to be done and how very much hungrier still they had become before Mr Beaver said, “Now we’re nearly ready.” 

… There was a jug of creamy milk for the children (Mr Beaver stuck to beer) and a great big lump of deep yellow butter in the middle of the table from which everyone took as much as he wanted to go with his potatoes, and all the children thought – and I agree with them – that there’s nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago. And when they had finished the fish Mrs Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll, steaming hot, and at the same time moved the kettle onto the fire, so that when they had finished the marmalade roll the tea was made and ready to be poured out. And when each person had got his (or her) cup of tea, each person shoved back his (or her) stool so as to be able to lean against the wall, and gave a long sigh of contentment.”

 

Every time I read this, I can almost taste the marmalade roll - although I have never actually had the opportunity to try one in real life.

The Beavers’ powers are limited and ordinary, but their influence is immense, through kind hospitality, a decent nourishing meal, and words that share a mysterious hope. The practical welcome given to the children soon mingles with the thrill of hearing about Aslan for the first time, setting them up in body and spirit for the adventure ahead.

This little scene reminds me of many good meals I have shared with people who also fed my soul with their encouragement and understanding of the unfolding works of God.

‘A Little Princess’ by Frances Hodgson Burnett

This image of ‘home’ is poignant, showing resurrection of lost hopes and the strange fulfillment of dreams. Sara, a child who had been wealthy when her father was alive, is orphaned and abruptly left at the mercy of a cruel teacher who makes her work as an unpaid servant. Sara’s dignity and ability to dream remains intact, and in dire circumstances she uses her vivid imagination for consolation. Her sensitive attention goes quickly outwards to the needs of others, and her friends reciprocate with loyalty and love towards her, incurring the jealousy of her guardian. She is unfairly punished and left in a bare attic: hungry, alone and cold, bereft of every scrap of comfort except her imagination.

 

She suddenly felt so tired—perhaps through want of food—that she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly. "Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of little dancing flames," she murmured. "Suppose there was a comfortable chair before it—and suppose there was a small table near, with a little hot—hot supper on it. And suppose"—as she drew the thin coverings over her—"suppose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blankets and large downy pillows. Suppose—suppose—" And her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.

She did not know how long she slept. But she had been tired enough to sleep deeply and profoundly—too deeply and soundly to be disturbed by anything …

 

In this lowest of moments, a mysterious benefactor sets a plan in motion to console her and care for her. As if by magic, her place of banishment becomes turned into a secret oasis of miracles, and a herald of changing fortunes.

 

At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy and—curiously enough—too warm and comfortable. She was so warm and comfortable, indeed, that she did not believe she was really awake. She never was as warm and cozy as this except in some lovely vision … Her eyes opened in spite of herself. And then she actually smiled—for what she saw she had never seen in the attic before, and knew she never should see.

 … This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland—and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.

 … "They are real, too. It's all real!" she cried. "I am NOT—I am NOT dreaming!" She almost staggered to the books and opened the one which lay upon the top. Something was written on the flyleaf—just a few words, and they were these: "To the little girl in the attic. From a friend."

 

This moment recalls for me every unexpected and loving gift ever given by family and friends to ease difficult situations, every care package thoughtfully put together, or card specially chosen to touch my heart. Often the giver had no idea how much joy and new vision they were imparting.

Beautiful Home-Grown Reality

And there we have it: a few fleeting sights of luminous moments in imagined homes. A light burning in the window for lost travelers, a blessing to ward off dark things and bring dreams of peace, a wholesome delicious meal and conversation about the long-awaited saviour, a treasury of gifts for a little one to show her she is loved.

In our own homes, may our loved ones return, may our rest be serene, may we share food and inspiration together, and may we shelter and care tenderly for those who are most vulnerable. While miniature book-nooks are fantastical and dreamy, I’ll trade them in happily for authentic life-size homes that incarnate the soul glimpsed in these places – but this time, I’d like an entire city-full, please.

Maria Khell is a wife, mother and writer who lives in Belgium.