I should be unpacking. Instead, I sit in my now empty house where the one remaining sign of life is the Internet connection. Over at our new home, boxes and piles abound in a maze of unfinished work. It’s an Internet-less (until tomorrow) mess, but already it’s beginning to feel like home. It’s where my stuff is. It’s where my family is.
Everything about our transition to this temporary living situation has been covered in love. The way that the Body of Christ has stepped forward to serve us in every need – even those I didn’t foresee – is beautiful and humbling. The process of moving has been moving, I guess I could say. My heart can scarcely understand the love we’ve been shown through the undeserved acts of service of so many of our friends. They have shown me Christ’s love, and for that I am grateful.
It’s a little sad and confusing sitting here in this ghost of a home, though. This isn’t the way I thought I would feel when I returned here to say goodbye. That isn’t really what I’m doing tonight, anyway. But still, it’s weird. It’s suddenly not… home. And maybe it bothers me a little bit that I’m kind of okay with that feeling.
Perhaps I’ll sort it out tomorrow. I’ll come here again, with cleaning supplies in hand, and I’ll remember as I work. I’ll remember the meals I’ve cooked on this stove. I’ll remember the nursery that once occupied that room. I’ll remember the babies I “met” in that bathroom, and the one I labored to lose in the same.
With love, appreciation, and gratitude in my heart, I will wipe away what’s left of all evidences of us, though in my very being they will forever be etched. The memories that reside here are a part of me. They tell who I’ve been, and they tell who I’m becoming.
No matter the place or the length of my residence there, God has been with me, and He will be with me. He has ordained for me each day that I’ve lived, and He already knows what the future ones hold. The secrets hidden within these walls have been known to Him for eternity past. Life has happened here – He let it be so.
Life will continue to happen here. But it won’t be mine. I’m sure I’ll drive by every now and then. I’ll see children at play on the swing set we built. I’ll see a mom on her knees weeding the perennials I planted. I’ll see the neighbors we love sitting on their front porch. And I’ll be glad. My spirit will rejoice in the gift of life – in the Giver of life. And with a smile and a sigh and a Thank You, Jesus, I’ll silently unpack these same funny feelings over again in my heart.