This time last year, our family had just finished our third Christmas abroad and away from family. In those three years, we celebrated many holidays, accomplishments, and birthdays as a family of four. We made birthday cakes that would never make the boards of Pinterest, attempted gingerbread houses from homemade graham crackers,
Our family moved into that house more than twenty years ago. Of all the houses we viewed, for a thirteen year old girl, this was THE ONE. The clincher: I had my own bathroom. What more could it need? I know every corner of it like the back of my hand. The back door, though surely repainted through the years looks best when my daddy is standing on the other side watching for me to come home. The kitchen has made many birthday meals, holiday meals, and typical weeknight meals, between the coming and going of busy teenagers. I know the contents of almost every kitchen cabinet. I can tell you which stair creaks and where to step if you find yourself sneaking up those stairs a little later than is allowed.
The room (that I still call mine) doesn't look the same as it once did. Though it still holds my old bedroom furniture, the signs of a teenage girl are barely visible. But if you open the drawers, the keepsakes are plentiful. The stool in my bathroom is over twenty years of age, as well. I've sat on it many mornings to fix my hair from junior high to college, including the dreaded 'teased bangs' phase. The front yard still holds the tree that barely survived my batting practice in the sixth grade. I thought it was the coolest thing to watch that bark fly off. My daddy was not so impressed.
The backyard began as a large patch of grass, but it would soon hold a pool… the home of many summer memories. I've also watched that same pool be filled with dirt, as the teenagers moved on. I witnessed my brother marry his wife under the trees behind the house. I've sat in that driveway a little longer than I should have with the boy that is now my husband. And I've invited many friends through the years to enter that backdoor and experience the joy that lives inside those walls.
This year I've been back to that house three times already. During one of those visits, we've had a chance to celebrate Jack's 11th birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Despite requiring a 14 hour trip in the car with four children, I wouldn't' trade those visits for anything in the world.
As my parents age, somehow that house gets bigger. Rooms that once belonged to a blond-haired boy and a brown-haired girl aren't visited quite as often. The three and a half bathrooms are more than enough for the two people that still call it home. And the stairs that we all once bounded up and down are traveled as little as possible.
I fully anticipate that one day, I'll make my last trip to that house. One day, my parents will find the perfect house for their current stage in life. They'll pack up the stuff that fills those rooms and start fresh in a home that will fit them and their needs. And together, we will all continue to make new memories in whatever place they find themselves.
But one thing is certain… though a house doesn't make a home, my heart is written on almost every wall in that house. It's full of some of my best days and some of my worst. And it's a part of me in every way.
One of my favorite things is that I've been able to take my children there. They've sat in the same kitchen and ordered some of Gigi's specialties, they've celebrated holidays and other big events there, and they have made memories there that will always be a part of them. I've watched Jack learn to wash cars with my daddy. I've watched Max curl up in the recliner with my mom and tell her he loves her for the hundredth time. I've seen Gray roll over in their den for the first time and Maggie begin tackling the daunting task of walking, while my daddy stood on guard for the many times she'd fall. And while I wait for that last time I visit the home of my childhood, I'll continue to treasure every meal we share at the table, every time I watch my children run through the sprinklers in the back yard, and every time my daddy waits for me in that back door. There truly is no place like home.
"Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to." --John Ed Pearce
