Tonight I was driving to my home in Louisa County after a busy work week at my new job in the Shenandoah
Valley. The closer the miles brought me to my winding road, the harder I cried. I found myself saying aloud
to the steering wheel, “I don’t want to do this. It’s my home. It's my home. I do not want to say good-bye.”
And in the midst of the swelling emotions, a voice would speak in my head saying, “What are these tears over wood and walls? Your home is inside of you and is always present where love moves and breathes.”
I know this is true. I know that a house can fall, is made of tangible objects, is not flesh nor bone. And yet… this house has been a friend to me. This house has arms that welcomed me the very first time I walked inside her door. This house was waiting for me, for Hannah. She said to our broken spirits, “Here you shall mend. Here you shall grow and evolve. Here you shall return to roots that have been yearning to be reconnected to your essence. You shall watch your child grow into a strong, wise woman here. You shall learn to make peace with quiet and become one with trees and sky. Here, you will find God in new ways that your soul has always known but your mind never grasped. Here you will rest and wrestle. Here you will come to dark edges that will almost swallow you… and here you shall be returned to the light."
This house has known me. I think as a single woman, this house has been my steadfast companion… a place to feel safe and understood. Like my little dog, Chloe, my home has always greeted me with love and never with judgment. This is not an imagined idea, but one that I feel deep in my bones. I prayed so long and hard to find this home, and without a doubt… God lit small candles that lined my pathway here.
And now God lights small candles that lead me onward. Tonight I shall sleep for the last time in this haven. The moon hangs at this smiling tilt… just this dainty whimsy of light strung among a sky spilling over with stars. The damp woods and grounded leaves fill my lungs with health and hope, and I am certain to cry more this night. But I will rise up as I have every morning in this house… with gratitude… that we found each other… and that we loved each other to life.
Shalom, my friend.
Shalom.
Valley. The closer the miles brought me to my winding road, the harder I cried. I found myself saying aloud
to the steering wheel, “I don’t want to do this. It’s my home. It's my home. I do not want to say good-bye.”
And in the midst of the swelling emotions, a voice would speak in my head saying, “What are these tears over wood and walls? Your home is inside of you and is always present where love moves and breathes.”
I know this is true. I know that a house can fall, is made of tangible objects, is not flesh nor bone. And yet… this house has been a friend to me. This house has arms that welcomed me the very first time I walked inside her door. This house was waiting for me, for Hannah. She said to our broken spirits, “Here you shall mend. Here you shall grow and evolve. Here you shall return to roots that have been yearning to be reconnected to your essence. You shall watch your child grow into a strong, wise woman here. You shall learn to make peace with quiet and become one with trees and sky. Here, you will find God in new ways that your soul has always known but your mind never grasped. Here you will rest and wrestle. Here you will come to dark edges that will almost swallow you… and here you shall be returned to the light."
This house has known me. I think as a single woman, this house has been my steadfast companion… a place to feel safe and understood. Like my little dog, Chloe, my home has always greeted me with love and never with judgment. This is not an imagined idea, but one that I feel deep in my bones. I prayed so long and hard to find this home, and without a doubt… God lit small candles that lined my pathway here.
And now God lights small candles that lead me onward. Tonight I shall sleep for the last time in this haven. The moon hangs at this smiling tilt… just this dainty whimsy of light strung among a sky spilling over with stars. The damp woods and grounded leaves fill my lungs with health and hope, and I am certain to cry more this night. But I will rise up as I have every morning in this house… with gratitude… that we found each other… and that we loved each other to life.
Shalom, my friend.
Shalom.
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