"Bittersweet is the idea that in all things there is both something broken and something beautiful…a shadow of hope in every heartbreak, and that rejoicing is no less rich when it contains a splinter of sadness." -Shauna Niequist
Our home in North Carolina is scheduled to close escrow tomorrow. Given the current economic climate and its small town/large unemployment location, we should be thrilled that it sold and we only lost some money, not all, in the whole transaction (and who hasn’t in real estate recently?). We also are a long way from North Carolina, with our feet now planted firmly in California sand. My head is relieved, thankful to have that matter settled and be a huge step closer in the whole “moving on” phase of things, but my heart…oh, my heart is another matter completely. I have been walking around this week with a constant ache that I have to push away before the tears arrive, a sweet, sweet sadness in saying good-bye to our spot on South College Avenue.
It’s an old home, over 85 years of history have permeated the arched brick patios, the high ceilings, the original glass doorknobs, the multi-paned windows and the sloped ceilings of the attic “guest suite.” Back on the West Coast, it will be rare for us ever to live in a house with that much authentic character. But as our dear friend Sally put it, in the way that only Sally can, “There will be more crown molding in your future.” And that’s true, because as much as I loved creating a pretty nest within those walls, it’s not the original honey-hued hardwood floors or vintage chandelier that I’m aching over.
The day after the moving van was loaded up and the day before our non-stop flight to LAX, I had a morning alone in the empty house. I was cleaning and making sure everything was spic and span for showings. I took my time washing those hardwood floors and immersed myself in the memories of each room. I offered my tears as a sacrifice of praise to God for all that happened at that one address. My ache is not for all that crown molding; it’s for the moments—all the precious, important, priceless moments that happened there….
Our first Christmas Eve in Newton, Mark away at church late into the night and I at home with a colicky baby Ben, rocking him endlessly while he cried and cried…until I started crying too and wailing, “Why God? Why?” Then a after a solid half-hour of singing “Kumbaya,” my little man falling asleep in my arms. That same rocking chair holding us as we read “Hey! Wake-up!” and “Goodnight Moon,” nursed boo-boos and fevers, rocked a beautiful baby girl in pure wonder and joy that she belonged to us and so many hours simply looking out at the lush limbs on the old oak trees, trees that always made us feel like we were safely hidden in a forest.
Ben scooting down the long, long hallway (nickednamed the bowling alley) on his diaper bum, grinning from ear to ear while proudly holding a plastic shovel, Clara crawling army style down that corridor, working madly to follow her big brother wherever he went, rounds and rounds of “naked laps” before bath time, two matching naked bottoms sprinting up and down wild with the laughter and freedom of nudity and childhood.
The worn patch of hardwood floor in the den where as Mark held chubby baby Ben in his arms, I surprised him with the news that he was going to be a daddy to another little peanut. That same spot is where we slow- danced barefoot after his 40th birthday party, kids asleep, guests gone and for a moment, just us, only us and also ground zero for countless rounds of butterfly and airplane, launching kids up on our legs watching the giddy joy of little faces as they were “flying.”
All the people we love that managed multiple flight connections, dirty airplane seats and time zones to come stay in our cozy guestroom. How soundly I always slept knowing they were nestled upstairs and that the next morning I got to make biscuits, dripping with butter and jam, for our tribe, those that knew us, loved us and connected us to a faraway home when we often felt like strangers in a strange livermush laden land.
The deep iron bathtub that celebrated first baths, lavender scented bubbles and cups of water poured over bald, tender heads. The adorable, sacred sweetness of naked, roly-poly children with twin sets of blue eyes that matched the Benjamin Moore Palladian Blue paint on the walls. The same tub where Mark so gently lowered my round pregnant belly into a warm bath after my first surgery, and so tenderly, earnestly and totally ineffectively tried to wash my hair.
The patch of linoleum in front of the dishwasher that will forever bear the weight of my body crumpling to the ground in horror and a never-ending chorus of “no, no, no…” when we received the call that our niece Grace had died. Just across the way stands the refrigerator that months later would hold the countdown sticker chart of the fourteen long days when I had to be isolated after my radioactive treatment, each day a countdown to the simple word “home.”
That small kitchen with the old, funky metal cabinets that also held Clara’s crib in the breakfast nook for about six months and was the spot for countless dance parties where the kids somehow decided you always need to dance with a spoon in each hand (one big and one little). This past summer we had a kitchen dance party including Aunt Kaitlin, Mara and even Baby Vivian as she danced along with us in her mama’s belly and while the spot in front of the dishwasher still cried out in pain, there was a smile along with the tears.
I recall countless dinners at the long, waxed pine table—at first lingering candlelit dinners for two, then a highchair pulled alongside and quick bites in between pureed carrots and dropped peas, then a booster seat and a high chair in tandem and just a lot of stickiness, to graduating to real family meals— saying grace, saying please, saying our best and worst parts of the day, saying I love you and thank you so, so much.
The hours spent in our big, soft bed—cuddling our way through a loud thunderstorm, dancing and jumping to “Yellow Submarine”, holding each other in wordless prayer, afternoon naps in the mid-summer rain and my luxurious ritual, worth all the retraining (that continues to this day) of falling asleep to the steady rhythm of Clara’s heartbeat as she cuddled up beside me in that bed.
I’m no mystic, but I do believe that homes can be sacred spaces and those good houses—old, strong, real houses, gather memories into the rafters and beams. There were many moments when I felt a presence, a presence of stories not my own—of searching for shoes before church, of bickering matches over family coming for dinner, of nights bouncing a sick baby up and down the hall, of conversations of war and new jobs, anniversary gifts and birthday cakes, of rainy days and old romances, of counting nickels and making the pantry supplies last a little longer…this presence comforted me, made me feel like we were adding our own layer to the plaster walls, that in a mysterious way, these crazy folks from California had soaked into the southern soul of that little house.
My heart aches for the memories, because no matter where we may live in the future, this house will always be our first real home, the place where we became a family, the place where we learned to find the sunshine spots in the bittersweet balance of sadness and joy, the safe shelter that held some of the most cherished moments of our life. Ben and Clara keep growing; their limbs are so long now, their vocabulary wild with new words, thoughts and questions. We look at them and know we can no longer call them babies, or even toddlers, but we can always think back to that brick sanctuary and see our babies.
My consolation in this farewell—we don’t know much about the new owners of our home, except that they had their first baby last month. It gives me endless comfort to know that the hallways will feel the weight of more wobbly first steps, that the walls will hear Happy Birthday choruses over one little candle, that exhausted, bewildered new parents in their own why? moments will be soothed by the sounds of the leaves rustling outside, and that perhaps, in the middle of the night with a fussy, teething baby they will feel a presence that includes a touch of our love, joy, tears and laughter that we added to the mix. My heart releases that special little spot in that special little town and says, “Welcome Home.”
