The Evening Kept Our Names

Maybe that’s why they’re so small…
so we can finally see what matters.

I used to think a good life
Would rise up tall and grand,
Some shining thing the world would place
In my two working hands.
Now I sit where evening gathers
On these boards worn smooth by years,
And every mile I ever carried
Looks gentler from right here.

These little roofs beneath big skies,
These porches in the wind,
Funny how the heart grows larger
When the world grows thin.

Not every road was wrong,
Some were making room.
Not every blessing came like fire,
Some arrived in bloom.

All these strange little houses
Standing open to the sky,
Bent by wind, lit from within,
Just like you and I.
Not too late, not left behind,
Only weathered into grace.
Maybe home was never somewhere else…
Maybe home has your face.

A teacup glowing in the berries,
A piano by the sea,
Stone rooms holding evening light
Like they were built for memory.
A paper bird above still water,
A book left wide to air,
Every odd and tender shelter
Feels like some old answered prayer.

Three warm cups and one sleeping dog,
Your shoulder close to mine,
And all the years we thought were gone
Are golden in this light.

We did not lose a single year…
They were shaping us for this.

Every crooked little house out here
Looks like a life well-lived.

All these strange little houses
Standing open to the sky,
Bent by wind, lit from within,
Just like you and I.
Not too late, not left behind,
Only weathered into grace.
Maybe home was never somewhere else…
Maybe home has your face.

Yeah, after all the miles and weather,
After all the years gone by,
The truest thing we ever built
Was something warm enough to light the night.

All these strange little houses…
They were ours all along.