You can't pack up the memories. As the photos have been taken down from the walls, mantle and various other areas of display, I'm struck with the overwhelming reality that you cannot really box up the memories. I cannot tenderly wrap them and place them snuggly within a cardboard shell. I cannot load them in my car and take them an hour up the road to unload them in the house on Beaten Path Road. The laughter, the tears, the many conversations and the many friends that have passed through the threshold on Markus Drive—those irreplaceable memories cannot be removed. They will echo in the small house forever, as long as the house is standing.
Sam's backyard baseball games; Jamie's backyard football; Abby's first room, first steps, first words… her first days of living out in the real world. The finger prints on the glass, on the walls… the footprints, the dust—all of combine to make so many wonderful memories.
They say that home is where the heart is. I used to believe that to mean that my heart belonged in the home on the side of the mountain in Virginia, off Ridgecrest Road. I used to think that my heart would always long for my childhood home; nothing can replace that home. So many memories that are impossible to remove from that home—they could not be boxed up and carried with me to each house that followed.
I have come to realize in my short life, that home is in fact where the heart is. Home is not four walls, bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms-- home is not the "where", but the "who". Home is exactly where my heart is! And my heart is with my Sam, Jamie, Abby and Jeffrey. My heart is with them wherever they go; whatever they do—my heart belongs to them and is always with them. I am at home, at peace, when I am with them.
Preparing to move my entire family and life as I've known it for the past five years is very difficult. Harder than I thought it would be. My heart aches as I imagine my children starting over; making new friends in a new school. New routines, new schedules—a new life. It is exciting and for me, the chance at "new" is extraordinary. But I worry about my boys especially. I worry about my husband and his future career path. I'm the mom, I'm the wife—I'm supposed to worry, I suppose.
As I walk through the rooms as they empty out, I'm sad. I remember the parties, the dinners, the play—I think of each of the folks that have come into my home over the last five years. Some I don't see anymore; some I long to see again.
I pray for a new start; a fresh beginning. A chance to open my home once again to familiar friends, family and to invite new friends in. To sit and chat; to dine and play with people who I love and who I will learn to love. It really is quite exciting when you think about it! A blank slate, to be filled with whatever God chooses. So, I take a deep breath and I place one foot in front of the other.
It is not an easy road to travel. I can't pack up memories in neat little boxes, but I can carry the warmth of their existence in my heart. Some memories will fade as photographs, but some will remain with me always. And when I recall Markus Drive and my five years there, I will smile and I will know deep within my heart—my family, my heart, my life was blessed by that home.
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