I Thought I Hated My House

A couple of weeks ago as Chris and I drove up to our house after being out, I thought to myself, "I really don't like this house." And then rapidly my thoughts were flying (yes it even happens in my own head and I have to keep up)--"I mean it has no curb appeal." See you learn words like that not because you're a realtor, but because you have moved so many times....

Sitting on the bench--no one stared

It really doesn't have curb appeal; it's off center; it needs new windows; frankly, it's ugly--when we moved in almost 8 years ago I told Chris I wanted to put a big porch across the front. Hence for 8 years I haven't wanted to spend any money landscaping because surely we'd put that porch on soon and it would be a waste of money to then rip up the landscaping. (I can be frugal when I want to be--or rather when I'm being manipulative about something I want.) I did put a bench in the empty space, and idea Chris thought was "nuts" until I sent him picture after picture of other houses that have them (manipulation again)
--his response, "Fine, but you better sit on that bench in the middle of the bed even though people will stare at you."

Just as quickly, however, I thought as tears filled my eyes. "No I love this house. It has so many memories--so many things have happened within these walls. It's not what the outside looks like; it's what happens inside--the love, the laughter, even the tears, and I love the home we have established here." I stepped outside to take a picture just to remind myself. As I stood there in the dark I thought about so many things that have occurred in this house. I thought about the broken windows and the broken dreams, the literal and figurative ceiling collapsing around us, the sound of feet thundering up the stairs in fits of rage and the sound of feet thundering down the stairs to welcome someone home. I thought about the many people who have passed through our doors, sat at our table, slept in our beds, filled our lives with friendship.

Fast forward--Wednesday I was planting the Easter lilies we had on the altar this year. I remembered

how last spring after Chris had taken a new job which requires him to travel 80 miles each way we thought about moving. We started looking at property further east just as the lilies began to spring up in what I call my resurrection garden. It broke my heart. I couldn't imagine leaving all these lilies; they were part of our story, part of our lives.

I have been planting lilies in the garden for 7 years--lilies, tulips, and hyacinths from St. Mark's, Calvary, St James and now St. Thomas. There's no real organization--no plan (which probably makes my neighbor across the street who is a landscape architect insane). Instead each year I just plop a few more in the ground.

As I was planting I began to think specifically about the lilies and how I have no idea which are from which year or which church. I have no idea which were in memory of someone and which were in thanksgiving. I suspect some I have planted didn't survive and others have spread. It's kind of like the 8 years in this house--all of these experiences, those memories, these planned and unplanned times, they intermingle--the good and the bad. I thought about how some relationships developed inside these walls have spread bringing in others and some have stopped blooming. I remembered from previous years, and from looking at the lilies beginning to push through the ground that they come up over a few weeks but at different times blooming when they're ready as though they each have their own time schedule, their own way of being. I thought about each of my children...

This morning I was planting one more time--I was trying to replant some lilies that were pushed
down by yesterday's fierce winds and to plant the mums the altar guild insist I take because "no one else wants them." Some of the lilies I could replant and they again are standing up straight, some are propped against one another and some are lying on the ground. But they are all part of the garden--they all belong and they are all beautiful.

I thought about each of the children and Chris and myself--we have all had times over the past 8 years when we stood tall, times when we needed to be propped up by others around us, and times when we felt like we just couldn't get up. I hope and pray that every one of us knows to our very cores that in this house and in this family we all belong and we are beautiful in our own ways.

I was giggling as I planted the mums--it felt like Mikey in the life commercial--no one else wants them so give them to Katherine. To be honest, they're not my favorite flower--but as I dug the final holes I thought, "I hope that our home has been and will be a place where everyone feels welcome and particularly those who 'no one else wants.' I hope our home is a place where those who stand tall, those who need to be supported, and those who need a place of rest and refuge will all feel they belong and know we believe they're beautiful. I hope our home continues to be a place of remembering our past, remembering our experiences and also a place where new ones will be planted every year."

I stepped back to take pictures of this messy, chaotic, spontaneous, unplanned beautiful garden that now spills over to where my porch is supposed to be and I quietly said aloud, "I love my home."