But on that last Sunday, it hit me. We were leaving behind our home of seven years. A home that we had remodeled and put sweat and blood into. The only home our boys had ever known.
Finn took one last nap in his favorite spot; the living room floor with the afternoon sunlight pouring in. In that moment, I could not hold back the tears. The reality and enormity of what we about to do hit me so hard that I wasn’t sure I could take one more step in the direction we’d already decided to go.
Home is a place that we create and re-create in every moment, at every stage of our lives, a place where the plain and common becomes cherished and the ordinary becomes sacred. -Katrina Kenison
We had a final family hug in the living room and that was it. We backed out of our driveway one last time and drove down our street for the five thousandth time.
We left it all; our blue house with the hammock in the backyard, the railings and walls that I spent hours painting, the kitchen sink where I did the dishes for thousands of meals, the nursery where I spent many middle-of-the-night hours nursing babies by the dim glow of a lamp, the yard where Troy repaired sprinklers every single summer, the baseball diamonds where our boys learned to swing a bat, the library where we borrowed and returned hundreds of books, the church where we spent every Sunday trying to keep our boys still and quiet.
A few weeks later, a new family moved in and laid claim to the house that once seemed like a living, breathing extension of us.
Being alive, it seems, means learning to bear the weight of the passing of all things. It means finding a way to lightly hold all the places we’ve loved and left anyway, all the moments and days and years that have already been lived and lost to memory. It means, always, allowing for the hard truth of endings. It means, too, keeping faith in beginnings. -Katrina Kenison