The House that Built Us
Just warning you- this is one of the sappiest posts I've ever written. This is my family's last week in our home before they head off the their new adventure in PA. I have been so so excited for what lies ahead for them, but I definitely shed a few tears as I took a minute to reminisce. If you didn't spend any time at this house with us, you may want to skip this post and avoid the cheese, but I still meant every word.
If these walls could talk...
They'd tell you about a little boy who didn't want to move in because he'd have to leave all his friends at the apartment complex. That is until he saw the blue and green shag carpet in his very own room, then he was sold.
They'd tell you about the best places to hide: the built in laundry hampers in the downstairs bathrooms for a game of hide-and-seek, or the closet under the stairs for refuge from a tornado.
They'd tell you that you might think that's just an ordinary light pole in the front yard but you're wrong. In October it turns into a Jack-o-lantern and in December it transforms into a Candy Cane right out of the North Pole.
They'd tell you about teaching a 16 year old girl to drive a stick shift (there are three pedals...not two) and how it earned this house a new garage door.
They'd tell you about our first dog Bandit and the little boy who hated to put him outside so he created his own sign language to talk to him through the back door. Bandit will continue to guard our house, he's buried in the backyard.
They'd tell you about the time a work crew busted a pipe in our front yard and it flooded the whole house. We got a sweet cement floor out of the deal and Mom and Dad let us rollerblade, dribble basketballs on it, and bike inside for months.
They'd tell you about the hole in the wall that's shaped like the backside of one of the Polish Ping Pong Players of America who held their meetings in the game room upstairs.
They'd tell you about the time we got a brand new basketball hoop and we got to put our hand prints in the cement where it stands. There was a high school kid who owed his mid- range basketball game to this hoop. The driveway is slightly slanted, and extremely rocky, but he was able to use this to his advantage. To this day he can pretty much hit any shot that lies in that area that the driveway provided, however, if he moves out side the limits of the driveway, the percentage decreases remarkably.
They'd tell you that the woodpile on the left of the house is actually a secret clubhouse but you'll have to know the password to get in.
They'd tell you about the time the front door blew open while we were out of town and the police came to check and see if everything was okay. They told my parents the upstairs looked like it had been ransacked, but my parents told them no, it was just because their teenagers lived up there.
They'd tell you that the fireplace was sacred ground, a place for countless scripture studies, family nights, wrestling matches, and pictures before we went anywhere and everywhere that took place in that living room on a regular basis.
They'd tell you to make friends with your next door neighbors because you're going to need their tree to run around if you ever want to play Colored Eggs in the front yard.
They'd tell you about a bride who got ready in the vanity upstairs before heading off to the temple to change her last name forever.
They'd tell you about the hours and hours that went in to painting a purple nursery for our baby sister who was finally making her way to our family, the little caboose.
They'd tell you about sleepovers, game nights, movie nights, birthday parties, Easter and Thanksgiving dinners. They'd tell you about tears shed and prayers said. They'd tell you about the marks in the doorway that track our heights, the marks in the downstairs bedroom from naughty children coloring on the walls, but that's all painted over now.
Mostly these walls would tell you this house was a house of the Lord. It was a place where anyone could come and feel safe, where many were literally taking refuge from their personal storms, where there was always more than enough food and fun and happiness to go around. We grew up in this house, it raised our family and it will always be our home.
Now it's time for this house to raise a new family. So, to the little girls and boys who move in- as you figure out which stairs creak, which window has the best view, and which room you'll call your own, let the house teach you its secrets. It's got a lot to share and you're lucky to have it, just like we were.
|Family picture/wrestling session circa 2004|
Maybe it's because I'm sappy, but I love this post. It makes me want to make my house a memory holder like yours was. I think you should mail a copy to the family that moves in. :) Really.ReplyDelete
Aw, Sorry, Kamille! It's so hard to move.... even though you're not actually moving. Someday I want to show Chris all my childhood homes. I have such fond memories of them. Glad you took the time to reminisce!ReplyDelete
Gosh now I'm teary! And laughing...the garage door! Hahaha, Happy trails to your family!ReplyDelete