Yesterday I accepted an offer on the home my parents shared for 55 years. The home where my siblings and I were raised. Where we laughed, where we cried, where we celebrated and where we grieved – the home where we loved.
As I sat here this morning reflecting on the sale, the mix of emotions that I felt was like a whirlwind on steroids. A rush of relief as the stress of the sale process lifted followed by a rush of grief that I didn’t expect, and then a rush of memories. All whirling around like debris in a tornado.
Mom and Dad were married in February 1967 while Dad was in the Army. They lived a simple life, ran a business, and provided as best they could for their little family. They loved deeply; I can’t recall a single time where they argued, though I’m sure they had disagreements as all couples do.
In 1969 they bought the home where they spent the rest of their days. An original craftsman house, it was built in the early 1900’s – big fireplace, mahogany stained woodwork, original handmade custom cabinets in the kitchen. They purchased it from the first owners who also spent their entire married lives there. As I type this so many memories are flooding me and I simply can’t share them all. I haven’t envisioned that home through my childhood eyes in so long….what a blessing to be able to do that now.
Thanksgiving was Mom’s favorite holiday. She would put the leaves in the old mahogany dining table (yes, it was the same color as the woodwork and belonged to the first owners!) and break out the china for a fancy dinner celebration. Our grandmas and aunts would join Mom in the kitchen to finish preparing the feast, and the food would be laid out on the buffet that matched the table. The entire house was filled with the sound of laughter and conversation – oh how beautiful those Thanksgivings were!
Christmas was magical to me. Mom and Dad would put the tree in the center of the sunporch and we would decorate it with lights and ornaments all twinkling so beautifully behind the french doors that were usually kept closed until Christmas Eve. Family would come for another fancy table dinner, and then Mom and Aunt Joni would take us children on a drive to see all the Christmas lights in town. While we were gone, Santa would come, and always when we were getting out of the car to come back inside, we would hear bells jingling and a “Ho, Ho, Ho” from behind the house. I learned years later that this was Grandpa on the back porch doing his part to make it special.
My Dad was a lover of music and had a fabulous stereo system. On Friday or Saturday evenings, he would put on an album and crank the music loud. I truly loved sitting there with him just listening and enjoying his company! Late in the evening we’d get a call from the elderly man next door asking that we turn the “boom-boom” down; Dad always complied. So many weeknights we would sit as a family watching some sitcom or another, Dad in his recliner, the three of us kids sprawled on the floor, and Mom on the sofa crocheting or knitting while we watched and laughed together.
I have so many more memories, too many to put into words. Selling this house is closing the book of my parents lives, the last chapter written. In just a few days, this chapter for that house will close too. I will hand over the keys and say goodbye to the only home I knew as a child, the home where my parents loved for nearly their entire marriage. I will no longer be able to walk through it and reminisce. Our memories just ghosts within those walls.
But as is always true for houses, a new chapter will begin with the new family buying it. I pray God blesses them for many, many years to come, with the same love and joy we shared within those doors.
From Suffering to Praise 