Autumn on the Lake...Two Years Later

 

Two years ago today, Ryan and I stood in the kitchen of this little lake cottage and signed a million papers to make it ours. I sit in the same kitchen today, writing this to you, and I find it hard to remember life before this lake.

            An exaggeration, of course. I have many memories from each of the homes that have been ours throughout twelve years of marriage. I have favorite spots from each of those places. I have favorite days from each of those places. I was formed and shaped by each of those places.

            But when I say we signed for this house two years ago, that seems so short. And yet it seems we’ve lived here forever. The memories are deep and concrete – as are the dreams.

            Ryan and I still shake our heads at the before pictures of this house. We still wonder what we were thinking. And we are still glad we thought it.

            Today it is home. It is not after. But it is home. I wrote about the promise we saw in this place just last month, when I commemorated the two-year mark since we first saw the house.

            Today I celebrate again, but in a different way.

            Today I celebrate the sacrifice Ryan (especially) put into the hours of work on this place. When we purchased it, Lexi was just around a year old, and the amount of time we felt we could be away from her was minimal. Painting with an energetic dog didn’t sound like the best plan, so on the days and evenings we would work here together, my time would be abbreviated so I could spend more time with her. Ryan, though, put in long, long hours nearly every night after work and many Saturdays.

            He worked in emptiness – the house void of warmth that comes from the tangible markers of home and the people that make it home. During the times I came to work, I’d look around and wonder what it would be like when it was truly home. What would it feel like when we brought in the things that transformed and warmed?

            Two years later, I can say, it’s wonderful. The trees outside the window are the same warm hues they were two years ago today. The lake waters ripple like they did then. But inside the house – and outside it, too – home has arrived.

            The stories housed in the books I love so much have made their way onto shelves.

            Our plants are growing and thriving with lakeside sunlight pouring in.

            Our coffee pot chugs to life so we can, too.

            Our giant blue hug of a couch has found a spot where we can rest and rejuvenate.

            And here we live, and nourish, and celebrate, and pray, and grow.

            And it feels like it’s always been this way. It feels like forever, and we hope it will be forever. (We’ve learned not to put God in a box on that, but if it were up to us…)

            Happy two years at the lake. Autumn on the lake is gorgeous. It promised to be so two years ago and delivers yet again this year.