Home is so much more than where your heart is. 

The last couple weeks I’ve definitely felt the light come on inside my soul again. I have felt burdened and heavy for some unknown reason and it was beginning to worry me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the weather change or if it’s because I’m looking forward to the accomplishment of a major life goal, but I’m happy.

In just about two months my first house will be built. I signed the contract in May and have been diligently checking it’s progress each week. Week one was groundbreaking and my excitement was ethereal but now, at week whatever we are at because I’m not counting weeks anymore, the excitement is tangible and reverberates through my every word. This is truly becoming my reality. 

It’s the American Dream, after all, to have the perfect house with a nice backyard, barbecue pit, manicured front yard, and pleasantly mannered neighbors. But at 36, single, rather fixed income, and not much else to carry me except genuine faith, this is a monumental accomplishment in many more ways.

See, when I was a child my mother moved us from house to house, new boyfriend to new boyfriend, etc. We moved frequently every year until moving became such a normal part of our life that we almost didn’t know how to react when we stayed somewhere for more than a year. It was unnerving. And certainly abnormal for us. During the 80s, when I was growing up, buying your own house and raising your three kids alone wasn’t as easy as some might like to think. So that was the primary cause for moving so much. My mom didn’t have many choices available to her.

So, as a mother myself, I have made it a priority to ensure I wouldn’t be caught in the same predicament. I decided early on that my son would have as much stability as humanly possible especially after we separated from his dad. With God’s grace and blessings, I have been able to do exactly that. Humbly, I am honored to say that now we will have our very own house to grow in. This is my very first house in my entire life. I’ve never lived anywhere that was genuinely mine to call home and I can’t even begin to describe how incredible it feels. While I feel somewhat speechless, I feel compelled to try my best to capture the emotions and transformation of my life. Pictures are one thing but words are another. I’m not as good of a photographer as I am a writer.

It’s such an honor and a privilege to be afforded the opportunity to have my own house. I feel like I’m investing in me. My future. My family. That I’m building something sustainable and establishing some permanence in this earthly home. It feels real. I won’t have to flit from bush to bush trying to find my place and feel insecure about my establishment. I will have a permanent address. A home. A house that was mine before it was ever anyone else’s and made the way I desired it. A chance at making a life worth living and building upon for the rest of my life.

I look forward to all the hubbaloo that is soon to ensue with mortgage companies, interest rates, closing costs, and getting the keys! I am excited for the decorating and the arrangements. I am delighted to celebrate my new home with friends and family at the spring housewarming party I’m beginning to plan. I am elated to think that I can have Halloween parties and social groups gather at my home for food and fun instead of going elsewhere all the time. It honestly feels like a missing piece is being put into place within my soul. I am more blessed than I deserve. More rich in conventional ways than in anything else. And I am blissfully satisfied. My cup runneth o’er.

My heart is all in to this house but my home will be all of me completely. 

Advertisements

Notches of grief

Brain cancer. 5 years old. 

Brain cancer. 27 years old. 

Suicide. 30 years old. 

Brain aneurysm. 27 years old. 

Car accident. 17 years old. 

Old age. 83 years old. 

Drive by shooting. 16 years old and 3 months pregnant.

Cancer. 35 years old. 

Cancer. 53 years old.

Drive by shooting. 19 years old. 

Sudden infant death syndrome. 4 months old.

Drive by shooting. 16 years old.

Your lives mean too much to be relegated to a list on a page

But your numbers consume so much of my heart and I fear I don’t have enough skin to ink your name

My life of white privilege and living in no fear will never be the same

Cancer. Suicide. Shooting.

All of these and more will be gone before I. 

Where does it end?

With you?

With me?

Between lines on pages and ink making its mark? 

With brush strokes and poems or song lyrics and rhythms? 

Where does it end?

A life is sacred. A life is precious. Without life there is no me. Nor a you. Without life there is no purpose. 

A familiar face unfamiliar to me in a

cold

hard

steel box

wrapped with embellishments too gaudy to be sentimental.

Your soul is gone.

Your life is gone.

Your nails too brittle.

Your eyes never to open.

Where does it end? Life is too precious to be gone too soon.