If These Walls Could Speak

This week marked the end of an era for my family. Way back in April of 1980, we moved from the city to a brand new house in the 'burbs. The oldest of four, I was part-way through fifth grade, and my brother, the youngest, had just smashed his first birthday cake.


Now, he has two kids of his own, and I've owned MY house for fifteen years.

I'm proud of my parents. Their house is 33 years old and still has its original kitchen and bathrooms. A bit outdated, perhaps, but they've kept everything in pristine condition. They've done a wonderful job of maintaining their home. And the yard has come a LONG way from its original condition: when we moved in, the unfinished backyard was bordered by a two story mountain of dirt. Undoubtedly a mother's nightmare, but it was an adventure for us as kids. Especially since there were more kids on the other side.

It was fun to have the house built. When we went to visit during the build, we had fun testing out our rooms on the lower level: closets with no doors, cement floors, and, we found out recently, my sister put a penny in the light fixture in our bedroom. No one found it, so it's probably still there.

How many times did we shovel the driveway and mow the lawn? I know I mowed over frogs from the pond across the street at least twice. Yikes! That's a memory I could do without! At least it wasn't the baby bunnies who often lived in the front bushes. 

For me, early mornings meant finding my dad in his office praying, reading his Bible, or working before I got up. Those conversations are some of my best memories in that house. After touching base with my dad, I had my own devotions in the red corduroy chair. That's right - a red corduroy chair. Somehow, that chair wound its way into all of our hearts.

That house saw 33 of our Christmases, Thanksgivings, Halloweens, and Easters. Two first-day-of-kindergartens. Four high school graduations. Lots of parties for birthdays, weddings, and baby showers. Four grandchildren. Sleepovers, Boy Scout projects, post-camp laundry, hours of piano practicing, and probably 1500 batches of brownies. 

The best thing about that house is that it witnessed our best and worst days, and, in the end, my parents produced a happy, functional family in that house. We are stunningly blessed: a testament to prayers and grace outpacing even brownie production over the years.

We are thrilled for our parents' new home. Especially the porch with the view. I'm excited that most of the moving process is over. It's helpful to know there's a young family moving into the old house, ready to build their own memories. 

But for today, I'm sad. A little for me, but mostly for my parents, as they leave their long-time home. We can't go back, and it wouldn't be ours if we did. Of course we keep all the memories, but it's sad to walk away from the walls that held them. 

Adieu 7624. Thanks for keeping us safe and warm. Please be equally good to the new family under your roof.