A Year of Home

 

A year ago today, Ryan and I parked our car in the driveway of this lake house, walked inside, and signed the papers to make it ours.

            The gentleman who sold us the house was here too, and as we signed, I watched him walk slowly from room to room, taking one last look and saying whatever silent goodbyes he needed for closure on a dream. He was a quiet sort of man, and aside from this transaction, we didn’t know him, so I didn’t ask questions about how he felt on that day. If I had to guess, I’d call it a mixed bag of relief and grief. Relief to be set free from a dream that hadn’t panned out the way he hoped and grief over letting go of a dream that hadn’t panned out the way he hoped.

            He handed us the keys, walked out the door, and Ryan and I were left with this house that felt cold (because it was cold) and echoed it emptiness. We made our own slow pilgrimage through the rooms, realizing that the work was now ours to do. How does work multiply so quickly when ownership is attached?

            We didn’t start making lists that morning. We waited one whole day for that! The first morning was all about absorbing with wide-eyed wonder.

            The chilly fall day and emptiness of the house made me wonder what it would be like when the dreams in our minds were reality before us. What would the house feel like? Would it be warm and cozy? Would it truly have our personal stamp on it? Would it be home?

            This past Sunday night we baked a loaf of bread with our freshly milled flour, and the beautiful aroma permeated every inch of the house. When it had finished baking, it sat in all its golden-brown beauty in front of the little lamp in the corner of the kitchen. I looked at that little vignette, inhaled deeply, and said, “Oh yes. This is home.”

            Last night I had to work late and when I finally arrived home, I changed into jammies and crawled under my favorite blanket. Ryan watched football from the other end of the couch, Lexi snored in between us, and my coffee cooled faster than I could drink it. The walls in front of us are crisp white, our beloved curtains hang at the windows, and our nautical lamps from about 6 years ago fit here better than any other room they’ve ever been in. It’s home.

            We know the spots where the floors creak. We’ve met most of the neighbors. The sunsets have not gotten old. It’s home.

            It’s been quite a year. It’s been defining in many ways. Maybe I should redo this picture today – with touches of home all around.