(First posted on Common Grounds Online)
At midnight on July 24th, Michael told me to close my eyes and guided me gently up the steps into our first home as a married couple. The house on Julian Avenue was built more than 80 years ago and Michael had been living there for three years as a bachelor before we got married. But now it was ours and it sparkled and shone with several new coats of paint, a brand new couch, white flowers in vases, and my mother’s expert decorating touch covering almost every square inch of the now “ours” urban bungalow.
We spent the remaining week of our honeymoon opening wedding gifts (actually we were done with that by 3 a.m. on July 25th), stocking our refrigerator, and generally gazing around at a future of joy within our new walls.
For the first time in 10 years—after four different addresses and at least a hundred rent checks—I finally felt like I had come home.
Coming home feels like unpacking my teacup collection and giving it a home in the built-in glass cabinet that I had had my eye on ever since Michael proposed to me.
It feels like a bunch of red sunflowers that laugh at me from my table, reminding me of the man who knew I would like them.
It feels like washing dishes in the sink and having time to dry them by hand.
It feels like finding dust on the dresser top and having a reason to remove it.
It feels like my neighbor showing up on my doorstep with a handful of homegrown cucumbers and red tomatoes.
It feels like another neighbor stopping by with a housewarming gift just because she wanted to.
It feels like setting a chair at the table for someone who needs a listening ear and a good cup of coffee.
It feels like lingering over a smooth glass of wine on the porch, living with the mosquitos because the conversation’s too good.
But coming home is so much more than getting married and finally owning a home.
Right now home feels more touchable, more taste-able with dishes of my own that it did when I was living in a rental property with three roommates, but I’m still just passing through.
Really, home is where it won’t ever really matter if I have my own dishes or not. Home is where it won’t matter how many books I own, or if I have a place to store my teacups. In reality, I will never fully be at Home until I’ve crossed the Jordan.
Until then, I’ll wait in the now and not yet, of enjoying the glimmer of home that I’ll one day walk into.
Your home sounds lovely! Enjoy it!
Lovely, Z. Reminds me of a Michael Card song about home. Within the verses it goes from, “I will be your home” to “I will bring you home.” I hope that in the world to come, the mansion Christ is building for me is next door to the one he is building for you! 🙂 I miss you, girl!