Hello again!

We moved into a new home last summer.  The move brought up memories of other places I’ve called home. What might those be?

At 17 I left for college. “Goodbye,” nice house; “hello,” old, industrial, gray-green dorm built in the 30’s. My dorm room was small with bunk beds. Bathrooms were down the hall.  I was happy there. Everything was new. Life-changing events took place in that building. Faith-altering events. After living in that old dorm for 4 years, I was confident that my home didn’t need to be beautiful for me to be content in it.

How short-lived my confidence would be.

June of 1984 found me newly married.  Home was a rickety student apartment in College Station. Our rented furniture was the cheapest we could find. I only knew how to make one thing for dinner: taco salad. But there we were – in our early 20’s – so in love, dirt poor, with no idea what the future held. As long as we were together it didn’t matter what our make-shift home looked like. Home had become a person.

As soon as we were both out of college, we found our next place:  an apartment in San Antonio. We had new jobs but our budget was still tight. I think we had a cast-off couch – the kind you see next to a dumpster. While there, we managed to buy a wooden kitchen table and 4 small chairs. I so wanted our place to be nice. But it was plain. In that little apartment we learned that we were expecting a baby.  But also that my parents were divorcing, and that my husband lost his job. Months of job search paid off. Our apartment complex didn’t allow children. On to somewhere new.

Up next was a rented duplex near downtown San Antonio.

This, at first, seemed to be refreshing because it was located on the outskirts of an old, semi-elegant neighborhood. There was a redbud tree in the front yard. And the duplex was furnished, which was a big help.  But … the decor was chosen by the older landlady.  Imagine: orange, rust and brown furniture with orange curtains and carpet.  She must have really liked orange. I decided to be thankful because the rent was so affordable. Our duplex had no dishwasher, no washer or dryer and no central air.  It came with a queen-sized bed in one bedroom. This mattress had a smell. I kept insisting to my husband, “it smells bad” but he could never detect it. Yet, in this little place both our precious newborn babies were brought home from the hospital. Our crash course in parenting began. We paced at night as colic became our least favorite word. Then we watched our babies walk, talk and play.  We became a family in that old duplex, counting our pennies. Even so, I found myself dreaming of a nicer place to live, maybe with standard appliances. We inhabited that duplex for about 6 years but I desperately didn’t want it to inhabit me.

Good news arrived (a new job) and our next home was a rental property in The Woodlands, near Houston. What a gift. A real house, with two stories.  And central air and appliances.

This home was situated on a short dead-end street in the middle of a pine forest with bike paths throughout. Our little children filled that house with their imagination, friends, Legos and Beanie Babies. I had some of my most cherished mom memories there: reading to our children and teaching them to read. Christmas was special with a fireplace to decorate. Our kids learned to ride their bikes on that street. But the early 90’s wasn’t kind to real estate companies and my husband again lost his job. Our entire first floor flooded due to a burst water pipe; and wouldn’t you know it, we were out of town when it happened.  As the first floor was repaired the kids did their home-schooling lessons upstairs on our king sized bed and we “cooked” in the upstairs hallway.  In this place our lives were blessed with precious friends. Yet I found myself wrestling with dis-contentment, our lack of resources to buy our own house and make it pretty.  By now I had entirely bought the lie that our plain home was a reflection of me as a person. Then my husband’s new place of business transferred him to their Dallas office. Leaving that home in the pine forest after 4 years proved to be so very hard. On our last night I remember sobbing with grief. But leave we did.

Arriving in Dallas in 1996 I felt numb inside.  I grew up there and, sadly, there were few happy childhood memories pulling me back. Finances were still tight so we rented an apartment, a place to park while we decided where to set down roots. Our children had never lived in an apartment. They adjusted well and we enjoyed the pool. We continued home-schooling in that small space. The Hale-Bopp comet blazed overhead in 1997. And I began praying for God to provide. We’d always believed in living below our means but I sometimes wondered if we’d ever be able to afford a home.  And then, 13 years after we were married God provided just enough for the down-payment of our first house. A starter home in a Dallas suburb. Nothing special, but ours.

As I reflect on all the places I’ve described, I remember how I tried to get everything done every day, rushing around, tending to needs, trying to be content in humble places.

I say now that their plain-ness was needed to shape me into who I am.  I reflect on the struggles and the joys in each of those homes with gratitude.  I wouldn’t change a thing for they are the walls, floors and windows of our story.

Until next time.