Monday, April 23, 2012
I walked through the living room and into the bedroom, and it rolled over me like a gentle wave. I hardly recognized it for what it was. After all, here I was in the brand new home we had long prayed for. Everything new and sparkly - from the stainless steel appliances to the window panes. There's a fireplace, a deep, white tub and hardwood floors - things I had only dreamed about before. The pictures are on the walls, books line the shelves and quilts cover the beds.
Yet there it was - a sadness born of homesickness for the old home. It took me by surprise. Surely I wasn't missing the worn old cabinets, the dated tile floor or the stained carpet in the bedroom. I had everything I had dreamed of right in front of me.
"I'm not feeling quite at home yet," I sheepishly admitted to my husband. "Neither am I," came the unexpected reply.
It isn't the things we are missing. We lived in the other house for twenty-eight years. It was a silent witness to the laughter and tears of a growing family and sheltered us as we walked through storms we thought we would never survive. It holds secrets only our individual hearts will ever know. And just when life seemed to settle into a quiet routine grandchildren burst into the rooms, and they filled with noise and life once again.
Slow tears come as I finally say good-by. Everything was such a hurried blur when we packed up and moved away from that dear home. I hardly had the chance to whisper thanks. Thanks for holding us so closely and loving us so well. Thank you for the gift of twenty-eight years of memories - precious moments, hard moments, growing moments.
Now we go about making this house a home.