Home

My family has been moving around an awful lot lately. As I was sitting in our new living room the other night, I got to thinking about homes.

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 :)