My parents are selling my childhood home…tomorrow is the day they actually close…
In a way I’d like to throw myself kicking and screaming onto the ground, telling them to stop. That’s my house for goodness sake! That’s the house I travel to from miles away, my comfort, the place that grew me.
But here we are. I’m almost 40…on the cusp. And let’s face it. Things have changed. My mom is so ready to sign on the dotted line and get on with life…I can’t blame her. It’s a perfect transition. A sweet time for my parents. A new start, smaller home, perfect neighborhood to walk the dog, ponds to fish…new memories to make.
But you know what lurks? Memories of my home. I remember the day that my dad and uncle outran the rain to lay a concrete pad for our addition. I remember the veins in green carpet in my room where I ran cars and trucks like roads. I remember the yellow rotary phone that you dialed number by number while you sat at the kitchen bar. I remember the “sugar coffee” I drank as my mom did laundry in the sunroom. I remember hikes to the top of the mountain behind my house and trips to the creek behind my cousin’s just past our house. I remember a front porch swing that held me as I read books and fell asleep. I remember a playhouse that held dreams beyond imagination and a front yard maple tree that I swang from.
I remember the hard work of my dad’s hands that built that house on the hill. I remember mauve colored countertops in the late 1980’s and baby blue wallpaper in our kitchen. I remember cold winters and kerosene heaters, I remember a record player that lulled me to sleep in my bottom bunk. I remember mom’s hands clipping the sheets to the clothesline in the backyard and the clean smell of the sheets as they shaded me from the sun. I remember a front deck that held a grill and birthday parties with Neapolitan ice cream.
I remember a home that everyone felt welcome in. Even a run away child from a nearby shelter. I remember friends who would ask to talk to my parents because they felt so welcome. And I remember friends who entered and “felt” immediately at home.
I hate to let that house on the hill go but ya know what? I realize something. It’s not the house. It’s the people; the good bones that make that house. Any place my parents go will be home for me. They strive to love and include and always be the house that feels like home. It always will be. No matter where my parents go, that place will be home.
They built their house on the firm foundation of the love they have for each other but also on God’s love and grace for them. My childhood home and parents were far from perfect but they relied on a God Who is.
That’s my prayer for my little family. That we build a firm foundation on the only One Who matters. That we are not shortsighted but look to the firm foundation of the Bible and it’s truth for our guidance. I pray my kids will always find home wherever we are, wherever Jesus leads them. I hope they always want to come back “home”.
Good bones are important. Just like Maren Morris says- “ The house don’t fall when the bones are good.”