We moved in at the beginning of August. Life felt hard then. I remember I was in a funk. I was struggling to regain control after the whirlwind of the emotions that come along with moving.
We were living between. We’d wanted to move. But we were leaving our home. Not just a house. Not just brick and mortar. But the memories of the first 6 years as parents. We were living in our house. And our possessions were in our home.
We sold our other home. Our things came to our house. And life was just going to find its new normal.
I was feeling off. I was feeling unsettled. Tired. Happy for our new memory jar, of sorts. But sad for the end of a time.
And then I found my lump. The lump that completely flipped my world on its head.
In a place that didn’t feel like home. It just felt like a house. I was starting on this terrifying journey and we were in new territory. Our life was in boxes. And I felt like Dorothy, whisped up in a tornado of events.
Friends came to help us. To hang things on the walls. To build out rooms. To pick up. To organize. Babysitters and rock stars helped us find some sort of groove and to get some sort of handle on the chaos.
And I would still, daily, drive by our home. As we lived in our house. I would drive by home and see the place where we lived life as a family… a family that had never personally lived cancer inside the walls. A place that will always feel like simpler, more innocent times.
The rooms in our house slowly gained memories. They slowly became filled with the voices of rambunctious little boys. Noise reverberated from the basement up to their bedrooms. Knicks in the paint from things being thrown down the stairs. A light above the kitchen counter, shattered from a little boy playing around. Stickers on a window that someone left as a surprise.
The room where we host many a dance party. Where we convene in the morning and drink coffee and giggle and attempt to get ready for the day.
The space where we lounge on Saturday mornings and enjoy the bright light from the outside in. Where real meals and pretend meals are made. Where we play game after game of UNO. And we yell up the stairs for dinner times and messages that it is time to head out.
The room where mama plays the guitar and the fire keeps us warm. Where we watch football and read books and play iPads. Where the three boys run and run and run.
The Lego room. Where tiny bricks clutter the carpets and couch and underneath tables. Where music plays over the speaker and I write while the boys build and bicker and bubble over with imagination.
The place where we hardly ever sit. But where the kids enjoyed Thanksgiving meal while I went through chemo. And where New Year’s fancy feast was served to the Littles. A room that now houses a family heirloom… one that we never had in our old place.
The room where I have spent the bulk of my time over our life in this house. Where I have healed and hurt and laughed and cried and worried and rejoiced. The place where I have found comfort in the dark moments. Where I have woken up to the sun and been thankful for that. Where our boys come in the middle of the night when their dreams are overwhelming their sweet slumber. The place where I have found rest.
The room that we redid as a Christmas gift. With a custom piece from our Framily. A wall for writing where we wrote our hopes and dreams. Where hours of math have been studied at the desk.
The place where all the crap gathers. Where everyone’s lives are dropped when they enter the house. The place where our Christmas cards grace the wall begging for prayers each day.
The hub of the home where projects and meals and laughter all live.
The place where moments happen.
Where love grows.
Where my heart feels full.
Where our boys will grow.
And where we are so thankful to be.
It is the place where I lay my head on my pillow. Where I nuzzle up against my sweet man. Where I snuggle into his nook of his neck, wrap my leg around his, and breathe in a deep breath. A sigh of contentment.
Because it feels like home. It isn’t just a house anymore. It isn’t just floors and window and furniture and stuff. It’s our life. Our livelihood. Our family. Our memories. And a setting, a feeling, a backdrop to our story. A conduit for comfort and love and growth. A place where we can be. And where we can both become and unbecome.
We danced at our wedding. We danced to It feels like home to me. And I’ve always known, I suppose that home is not necessarily a place. But moreover, a feeling.
And after some time. After letting go of our other home. After letting it become the house. This place. Our place. It feels like home to me. It feels like home to me. And somehow, along the way, over the last year and a half. During our crazy mess. It feels like I’m all the way back where I belong.
