on home: and firsts and lasts
On Friday, we closed on a new (to us) house one neighborhood away. It happened fast and surprised us too. One day we were considering a search within our school zone and within a week we had an accepted offer. I know. It’s our 5th house in 15 years. For people who say we plant roots and stay put, we sure have moved a lot, or so it seems. I think this one is going to stick.
I haven’t felt quite “at home” in our last 2 places. Part of this was the isolation of pandemic times, not gathering friends or family. Late night living room chats about every topic imaginable had been a staple of life since college and it felt like the pandemic stole this. Part of it was the transition to parenthood; having kids morphs friendships and gatherings despite our best efforts. Add to this moving cities, churches, jobs, not to mention a lifelong battle with feeling I don’t quite belong. Feeling adrift is near-logical.
So why do I think this house will stick? Is it because of the larger living room for the gatherings I love and miss? Is it because of the abundance of Japanese maples and beautiful landscaping? I’m not exaggerating when I say I ran to the side yard when I realized camellia bushes were growing outside my kitchen window; I cannot wait for winter blooms. Is it because the kitchen is already remodeled or we will have a garage again?
It is all and none of this.
C.S. Lewis famously said,
“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”
I am homesick for elsewhere, but the closest I’ve come to the type of satisfaction Lewis describes is in slow mornings and long walks, in the baking of bread, in fellowship and conversation, and in the ministry that comes from getting close enough to another person to hurt and to heal. This house has enough physical space for all this.
But I’ve also been rising early and watching how the light hits the living room at my current house. I’ve been engaging in conversations with intimate friends, despite free-spirited children orbiting us. I’ve been practicing vulnerability again and letting my guard down.
The real reason I think this place will stick is because I am learning to welcome the firsts and lasts. The first Thanksgiving without my mom, my first home she’ll have never stepped foot into. The last of our pantry and fridge, making meals out of whatever keeps us from unnecessary grocery shopping before a move. The first rain of the season.
I’m a person who vacillates between nostalgia and forward-thinking and struggles to appreciate the here and now, but I am gently trying to compare today only to itself.
The reason this house will become home is because it is not my idol, nor will it fix me. I am reminding myself that Emmanuel has made his home in me. I’m reminding myself that no house, city, job, or task will fulfill my deepest longings. But the liturgy of everyday things can bring gratitude.
In packing, raking leaves, corralling kids, wiping down kitchen cabinets, and driving load after load of boxes from one location to another, Lord, make me like Brother Lawrence, practicing Your presence:
“Lord of all pots and pans and things . . . make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”
