Sometimes we know a place is a home because we are sad to leave it, even if we are leaving for good and joyful reasons, as I am this summer.
Like many young adults, I've moved fairly often in the last five years: from Tennessee to Indiana, from Indiana to Texas, from one apartment to another, and now, once again, from an apartment to a new place.
In an upcoming post, I'll explain why I am moving this summer, and why I am so excited for what this move will teach me about home. Tonight, however, I will allow myself a modest measure of nostalgia.
I moved from my Maple Avenue nook three years ago, after Mary asked if I would like to find an apartment with her. That invitation was, in itself, a milestone in my understanding of home. After living alone for two years, I was surprised and honored that someone wanted to live with me. After two years, Mary found a permanent roommate (in the form of a husband), and so I had the opportunity to invite another friend, Adrienne, to live with me.
This is a good place. It is on the river, and when I open the windows, all our rooms fill with wind and sun. This is the place I have hosted two Easter dinners and one Thanksgiving. This is the place I stopped feeling like a child play-acting at adult life, and began to enjoy the freedom and responsibilities I have as a friend, daughter, deacon, scholar, and teacher. This is the place I tended a garden. This is the place I learned to prepare a meal for fifteen without worrying.
Many of you have been my guests in this apartment, and if so, you have blessed me with your company. But whether or not you ever knocked on our door, I hope you will enjoy these glimpses of the place I've called home for the last few years.
|A place I studied, read, and wrote.|
|A place with bright windows.|
|A place where friends shared a meal.|
|A place for the wind to come in.|
|A place on the river.|
|A place to spend the night.|
|A place to walk.|
|A place I will miss.|