This Ol’ House

I realize that the title of this post might conjure up thoughts of some majestic old farmhouse out in the country.  You know, the kind that are shaped like a barn and look rustic but are really suped up inside with granite and shining hardwoods, sweeping lofts and the like?  That’s not what this is about.  This is about our house, which is soon to be someone else’s.   It’s not a fancy house.  It doesn’t have cool reading nooks or meditation rooms or even a fireplace.   And it’s admittedly been a bit cramped from time to time (ie Christmas of 2010 or community group every Tuesday night).  But it’s been ours for the last 4.5 years and a lot of life has transpired in those few short years.

In two weeks we are going to move into an amazing house.  So amazing that we still can’t believe it’s ours.  Can’t believe that we’re going to have more than one bathroom for the first time in our married life.  That we’ll have a legit guest bedroom in which to host people. It’s so far beyond what we’ve ever imagined.   And we are so, so, so excited about it.

Seriously, check out the view.  This is the view from our bedroom, from our living and dining rooms, from our home office.

More importantly, look at my new bathtub.  I sat inside the tub for a good ten minutes during the home inspection (don’t get nervous, I kept my clothes on), you know, just to get a feel for it.  It’s going to be awesome.   Did I mention that it also looks out over the lake?   Ok, man-made pond.  Semantics, Shemantics.  

And here are a few more shots…

So all said, we’re pretty pumped about the move.  But as we’ve really started to pack up our stuff and take pictures off the wall, and get the house ready for the renters, I’ve been overwhelmed by feelings of nostalgia.   And then I read this in Unaccustomed Earth.   It’s a collection of short stories and this particular one follows the relationship between a man and his adult daughter.   The father was reflecting on his earlier life with his wife and young kids…

“The bedroom in which Romi and Ruma had both been conceived was dreary, morning light never penetrating, and yet he considered it, still, the most sacred of spaces.  He recalled his children running through the rooms, the pitch of their young voices.  It was a part of their lives only he and his wife carried with them.  His children would only remember the large house he’d bought in the suburbs with willow trees in in the backyard,…”

I read that and for a moment felt like I almost couldn’t breathe.  How can we leave this house?  The first house we bought together, when it was just us and Toby the Dog.  The house where we were ridiculously excited to be able to paint the walls for the first time in our life together (and of course had to repaint them all when we didn’t like the colors).   The house that introduced us to home ownership and leaking roofs and broken water pipes (ok, those parts weren’t so fun).  The house that we brought our boys home to as wee babes.  The house where we paced the hall with them night after night and where I nursed them for hours and hours and hours and hours.  The house where they both took their first teetering steps and said their first words.   Where we planted trees in the yard to commemorate their births and built a sandbox and use the driveway as a sled run in the snow (which they are doing right now as I type). How can we walk away from all the life lived here?  All the memories?

We’ve reflected on it before and I imagine we’ll continue to do so as these years roll by but it’s just so strange to think that the boys won’t remember this house.    I suppose Gryffin might have some fleeting memories of it.   But Isaiah surely won’t.   As incredible as the new house promises to be (and believe me, it’s going to be rad), I’m going to miss this house and I know that Jason and I, at least, will always look back on it with fondness.