Somewhere around 16 a little dream was born. I wanted to remodel a historic home. I know, that’s weird for a teenage girl. This week while taking a LifeMap class I came to the realization that remodeling a historic house mostly comes from my desire to have a sense of belonging and home. We moved a lot (and I mean A LOT) in my childhood years from infancy to ten. There is probably some discomfort with the lack of roots in those years. In my mind I see all the years that would be lived in this restored home, the people coming and going. I’m pretty sure it’s not about the actual house. I think I craved that curating of home and belonging. A sense of belonging for myself, my family and anyone else who walks into my doors.
Fast forward more than two decades to our little rental. I have struggled with this idea that I can’t make it home because we won’t be staying. But here we are 18 months later, in that same adorable rental and somehow this place does feel a little like home. I didn’t paint the walls and I refuse to buy those closet organizers that it desperately needs. I haven’t hung much (thanks to lath and plaster walls) and made do with the curtains I already owned.
Yet, I see my sister curl her feet up, shoulders drop and relax when she settles into my couch with a glass of wine. I watch my BIL kick off his shoes, lean back and close his eyes. My daughter’s BFF tells me this is her second home and she loves it here. My friend Loretta says she could sit in my yard all day and Katy calls it a fairyland. I’ve sat hand in hand praying with friends who freely weep, our tears splash the dining room table. On muggy nights we’ve watched Marvel movies with a projector in that fairyland yard.
Then there are the kids. They learned to laugh again in the dining room with the creaky floors and 60s church pew. My youngest can be rocked into talking on our porch swing, and my oldest will speak hard truths to me sitting on wicker. We bake on the tiny counters, lemon macaroons and PB brownies. Somewhere along the way a sense of normalcy and peace settled in. Afternoons were spent in their hammocks; magazine pages made their way to the walls of the bedrooms and that funky teenage smell stuck around. On pizza nights we all settle into our spots on the living room furniture.
We’ve lived some life here! I’ve watched dark days turn to sunbeams! I’ve watched hearts heal! We blew candles out and celebrated holidays. It’s my first home in singleness and I know I’ll move on eventually, but for this season it’s surprising to find that it’s become something more than just “the rental”.
I expect that I won’t stay in this town and my roots will get transplanted far from here. Knowing this doesn’t change this feeling, the squeeze of gratitude in my chest. Gratitude for a sense of belonging. These 125-year-old walls have held a lot of nurturing, love and grace, and I’m grateful for a house that accidentally became home.