This Old House

It is 2:30 a.m. and although the last of the packing and cleaning has yet to be wrapped up, it is time to go to bed.  I just peeked in on my firstborn, tip-toeing on those creaky wooden floors of the nursery one last time.  The house is quiet on this last night that it is ours.  

This house is old.  The bathtub has a mold problem so bad that the owner is ripping it out as soon as we leave.  Not one tile on the kitchen floor is uncracked, and the crumbling grout makes me curse every time I sweep or mop.  There are cracks in the ceiling from the shifting foundation, which also makes Riggins' balls roll to that one corner of the living room without fail.  The wood on the back porch is rotting.  Grass refuses to grow in the back yard.  Half of the windows have blinds that won't fully open or close.  I could go on. 

But, oh, this house.  How I love this house.  How my heart aches to leave it.

I have been searching my heart trying to figure out why this has been such a difficult change for me.  Me, the Air Force Brat who has moved more times than I can count.  We have only lived here four years, and yet I find myself attached as though I had lived here for a lifetime.  And last night, as I nursed my seven-week old son in the empty nursery while watching my two-year-old son run in circles around the same room, it all became clear to me.  

This is my nest.  This is where I became a mother, and just as a mother bird builds her nest, prepares it for her little ones, and defends it from all disruption and harm, my instincts are fighting this disruption of my little nest, this home--imperfect though it may be--where we have built a family.  We have lived a lot of life within these four walls and over these four years.  

If walls could talk, they would tell you of long days alone with nothing to do but play with a new puppy, search for jobs, and question a calling.  Of nights where the studying lasted until the wee hours of the morning.  Of gatherings with friends on the back porch and around the fire pit in the back yard.  Of a couple trying to figure out how to balance a demanding job and a demanding curriculum.  Of Thanksgiving dinners, showers, and parties hosted. Of swinging on the porch after a walk through the neighborhood.  Of celebrating passed exams and forgetting about the failures by "having' church" with Brother David.  

They would tell you of a slack-jawed girl staring into the bathroom mirror after seeing those two lines.  Of the tears in his eyes as she told him the news on the living room couch.  Of the walls he painted in preparation, and of the armoire he sanded on the back porch during an ice storm just for that little boy.  Of the bathtub that soothed her labor pains.  Of the nursery they brought him home to.  Of the floors paced during those long nights with a newborn baby.  Of the porch swing that made him happy.  Of the first smiles, first laughs, first tastes, first teeth, first crawl, first steps.  Of that first birthday party set between the hydrangea and the camellia.  Of the bubbles blown, the balls thrown, the picnics had. 

They would tell you of a little boy, toddling across the living room to bring his Daddy the news of another baby on the way.  Of a growing belly trying to keep up with a growing toddler.  Of the frustrations of discipline and the joys of development.  Of a community of believers cramming into the cozy kitchen to discuss God's Word.  Of play dates, dance parties, dinners from Emmy after Jazzercise.  Of tickles and big hugs at bedtime.  Of a hurried bedtime before a rush to the hospital.  Of two families enjoying an Easter dinner in the glow of a new addition.  Of another beautiful baby sleeping in that cradle by the big front window, rocking on that front porch swing, staring up at that dogwood tree.  

Yes, we've lived a lot of life in four short years.  We will go on to love another home, to make more memories, and this sweet season will be a blink in the larger scope of our lives.  But because of what happened here, because of who I became here and what began here, this house--this city--will always have a piece of my heart.

So long, Crump Avenue.  Thanks for providing a beautiful setting for the beginning of our family.