We are moving.
In a week.
To say that my brain is struggling to wrap around this idea is a bit of an understatement.
My childhood in the military would lead one to think that a transition such as this would be easy for me. I know the fine art of packed boxes and labels- what goes where and how; I know how much is too much and when to let it all go, out to the curb, to bless another family. I know all this. I even know how to do it alone, as my mother has done with countless moves–a reality with the month of March being the busiest month of the entire year for the business, and everyone required to work weekends. Moving, in and of itself, is not especially difficult.
Finding home…that’s the difficult part. It’s what makes it hard to watch a wee little dress pass through your hands, remembering the sweet little legs and arms that fit through it, countless times, now grown so small it fits her favorite baby doll. It’s breaking the crib down, realizing that you might never pass this way again. It is looking at four walls, one roof, doors and windows, and seeing so much more. Whispered confidences, daring prayers. Songs and songs and words upon words, every night, tucking one child after another in to downy warmth and sweetest dreams.
It is where you were brought low, built up, released and renewed.
And while you know that it is time, the walls grown close, the square footage crowded with the needs of five growing pairs of feet, you find yourself staring off, wondering if you will ever find home again.
For a home is not made of timber and mud, but of heart and sinew and love, and the physical things remind us of that. A random dress would mean nothing to another, but to me is priceless for the daring princess girl who filled its folds. And the difficult part of moving is always- wondering, hoping, remembering. With the physical exertion of lifted box, we lift memory too.
It is time, I know. But this sweet tiny house will always be my House of Dreams– it was where my life as mama and wife began, where I began to learn the gentle art of becoming woman, little girl no longer.
I’ll even miss the way the washer likes to eat infant socks and nursing camisoles, I swear. The strange trill that the refrigerator has always made. The funky whoosh of sound that shuddered through the house when the HVAC turned on. The mountain view. But mostly I’ll miss knowing that no more toddlers will learn to walk down the hallway perfect for leaning on as unsteady feet gambol about, for the laughter and joyful chaos often ringing in the rafters of the ceiling, for the many late nights of prayer and learning, nursing wee ones while I rest in the arms of the Father.
This is my little signpost, my Ebenezer. I am taking the moment to grieve and yet find joy in the excitement and change. We will find home again, I know it- for home is made of heart, and hand, and love, and faith- and these we have in abundance, no matter our physical location.
Love you, little white house with blue shutters. Thank you for the time we have spent within your walls.