That's not a word people use much these days, I guess, but I used to fill in blanks with it all the time.
That's what I always wrote, when I was a stay-at-home mom. Wherever our home happened to be--overseas, the States, village, town, missionary center--that was my job: homemaker.
It's the kind of job that gets a "just" in front of it: "just" a homemaker.
It's the kind of job where nobody pays you for it, and really, nobody pays much attention to it, unless you really screw it up pretty badly.
But I liked that job a lot. I liked making a safe nest for my family, wherever we were. I liked making the house pretty. I liked making the food good. I liked making the clothes clean and folded. I liked making a place that welcomed friends and neighbors and strangers.
These days, I fill in the blank with "counselor" or "therapist." I could also fill in the blank with "author" or "blogger."
But recently I realized that I'm still kind of a homemaker.
At least, that's what I want to be.
I still want to make a safe place that's pretty and good and clean and organized and welcoming.
Whether it's my office or my books or my blog, I still want to make a place where people like to be, where they are heard and nurtured and encouraged to grow.
I still like to make a home.
It's funny how life is not a series of separate parts, at least not for me so far. I may think that I'm doing first one thing and then another, but as I look back, it's all part of a story that unfolds day by day, minute by minute. There's a purpose, there's a plan, it all fits together.
As if someone else is making a home for me all along, too.