Foundation, walls, and a roof--a lot of life can be lived in such confines. That place offered security, familiarity, and comfort; no other feels quite like it. The brick may look aged, the walls slathered in decades' worth of paint, and the roof beaten by unforgiving springtime storms, but that dwelling was home. Our short-lived possession is only a fraction of its existence, but it was the place of so much life for my sweet family.
I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another. I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized. Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting. We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love. The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.
Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track. With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred. The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient. Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow. It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework. The memories created there are at the core of our beings. Our marriage grew there. We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there. We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.
Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered. I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process. The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside. Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled. Unfamiliar. The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together. I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.
There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition. Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags. Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old. There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets. In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room. I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles. Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.
It has been a couple months since our move. There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes. My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space. Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway. More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.
Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment. I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons. I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape. Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages? You are not wondering that? Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure). I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past. If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments. Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing. That house is merely an old chapter. A closed door... literally.
One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change. I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases. The logical approach, of course. I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood. Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays. What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing? It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.
Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping. It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours. This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance. His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us. He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast. I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
