My first home, located on a quiet dead end street in
southern Michigan, was first and foremost a playground. This is the home I was
brought into when my mom and dad came home from the hospital, and it’s where I
spent my childhood years. When I think about that house I will always think of playing. I remember a particular tree in the backyard that
grew as if it wanted to be
climbed. Every branch was perfectly situated so that you could practically
climb to the top with your eyes closed. And, on either side of the bottom were
two branches that were very ideal for jumping up and swinging from. One was
about half a foot higher than the other, so it was perfect for my big brother
and me. He got the taller one, I got the shorter one. We spent hours hanging
from those two branches.
I also remember spending countless days in my room playing
with my toys. I had so many Disney figurines. Aladdin, Jasmine, a Magic Carpet,
Simba and Nala, Pumba and Jafaar. These were among my favorites, and I made up
so many stories with these miniature friends.
And I remember playing sports. All the time – sports.
Basketball and baseball and football and racing on rollerblades and bikes. We
had three neighbor friends who we loved to play with.
I don’t really remember having a lot of cares or worries
when we lived here. This home, to me, was about playing. It was about toys and
lemonade stands and long summer days spent outside and nights spent sleeping by
the Christmas tree in the winter.
We moved to our next home, just across town, when I was in
the fourth grade – still just a kid. If I had a word for this home, it would be
learning. Just a year after we moved, I
learned the heartache that comes when a beloved pet dies. I grew up in this
home and began learning that life isn’t always fair. That life is hard. That
school and relationships and attitudes could be difficult. It was in this home
that I learned what the word rebel meant
and how to apply it to my own life. This lead me to also learn what the word grounded
meant. A few years later I learned what it
feels like when someone breaks your heart. And I learned that the word cancer
often comes with its ugly best friend in
tow: fear.
There were many difficult times while we lived in this home,
but there were many good ones as well. I learned how to drive and was
especially proud when I mastered the art (and, believe me, it was an ART) of
backing out of our very curvy driveway. The level of artistry was further
exemplified when either the driveway was icy with snow or when one was very
late for school.
I also learned that while my best friends were intending to
go to college to become doctors and teachers, I was yearning to learn a
different craft: theatre. It was in this home that I went from wanting to be an
Olympic speedskater (obviously I had very realistic goals for myself) to
discovering a love and passion for the stage. I am forever grateful for those
who began introducing me to this new love during these years.
And although I didn’t always recognize it at the time, I
eventually learned of God’s faithfulness. He allowed the cancer to be
successfully removed. He healed broken hearts. He blessed me, took care of me,
and guided me when I deserved it the least. He never failed.
If this home was about learning, then our next home was
about struggling. We moved to Florida
right before my senior year of high school – leaving our friends, significant
others, and everything familiar to us and taking up residence in a tropical
climate. It was during this time that my relationship with God became real
because he was the only thing I had to cling to. I fought depression and long
waves of loneliness. But God was faithful and I was able to go back to Michigan
for the last semester of high school and graduate with my friends. However,
going back to Florida after graduating was a brand new struggle. I couldn’t
find a summer job so I literally counted down each day until I left for
college. It was the longest summer of my life.
All throughout college it was strange to go home for breaks.
I enjoyed seeing my family and spending time with them there, but I envied my
friends who were able to go back to the homes they had grown up in and reunite
with all of their high school friends. I had wonderful friends back home in
Michigan who I never got to see during these breaks and I often found that very
difficult to handle. And because I was never in Florida for more than a few
weeks at a time, it never really became familiar to me.
But struggle isn’t always a negative thing. Two summers ago
I was hired as an intern at a large church near our home in Orlando, and as
part of my time there I wrestled with many questions about who I am and what my
purpose is. We had classes on personality types and spiritual gifts and ran
arts camps and had long discussions and labored over the plans for each and
every worship service that took place during our internship. It was so so good.
A great kind of struggle.
And now our home is in Tennessee. We have gone from the flat
corn fields and harsh winters to palm trees and beaches to towering mountains
and thick, drawling accents. And it’s beautiful here. I can’t say that
mountains are my favorite form of topography (I tend to feel a bit trapped not
being able to see more than half a mile in any direction), but it is a truly
breathtaking place. Whenever you step outside or even open a window you can
hear the river roaring through the woods, just a dozen or so yards from our
backdoor. And the stars are so bright. No more city lights to block them from
view. There are trails to explore and wildlife to see. And that’s just on the
outside.
Inside, this home feels secure. A thick, gray brick wall
runs down the center of the house from top to bottom, and I can’t seem to get
over how strong it is. I find myself leaning on it or just pushing my hand
against it just because I know it won’t move. There isn’t even the slightest
give.
And then there are the cast iron sink and stove and the
handmade hard wood floors and the stairs that were all laid by the same two
hands twenty years ago and still don’t exert one single creak when walked on.
And there are the huge wooden beams that run up the walls
and across the ceiling in the living room so that even when you’re walking
around upstairs you feel like the solid ground is just underneath the floor
boards.
This home, as a whole, is just so strong.
Now I won’t get ahead of myself. I don’t know what the word
for this home will be yet. I know that it’s strong. I know that it’s very cozy
but still large enough to hold an entire side of our family, including multiple
babies and pets. I know that it has lots of character. And I know that it has
seen a lot of love, both in the hands that built it and with the family that
has just moved into it.
But the official word is yet to be determined. I expect that
a lot of things will take place in this home. Memories will be made, both happy
and sad. Experiences will come and go and many people will walk in and out the
front door. There’s no telling the wonderful things that will take place within
these walls.
I have some high hopes for this home :)
