The house I grew up in

Today I ended a chapter in my life.
I entered into a contract
to sell the house I grew up in.
I am not speaking of my childhood home.
I am speaking of the house I moved into
four years ago.
Let me tell you about it.

On May 25, 2012,
my Al was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
I had just celebrated my 55th birthday.
We had a lot of decisions to make
very quickly.
His time was short.
One of the decisions we made
was to sell our home of 19 years
and move to a smaller house
nearer our children.
The purchase and sale of both houses
happened very quickly and very smoothly.
It truly was a miracle from God!

Because of the circumstances of the purchase,
we made the very difficult decision to put the new house
in my name only.
And so, on July 6,
I took my Al to Short Oaks to die.
And I began my journey.

You see, I had never lived alone.
I was 18 when Al and I married.
I moved from my parents' home
to my husband's.
I never had to budget just my income.
I never had to be the only one responsible for upkeep.
I never had to be the only one to lay down under a roof to sleep.
I never had to be the only one -
anything.

Now, I'll tell you a little secret.
I always regretted that I'd not allowed myself that experience.
Don't get me wrong!
I loved my Al!
I am glad I married him!
But I always felt I'd somehow not really been an adult
when I married.
Because I wasn't.
I was 18.
A baby.

And so, as I searched for silver linings
in those dark, dark days
following his death,
I thought that perhaps having the experience of living alone
was a silver lining.
Or maybe more silver plated.

And so, I began growing up.
I paid my bills,
only once facing a disconnect very early on
while "widows fog" was in its full-blown state.
I painted asking only myself what color I wanted.
I purchased light fixtures and flooring without input.
I selected new furnishings.
I bought a car.
All.

By.

Myself.

And I'll tell you something.

It's not all it's cracked up to be!

But I grew up during those three years.

And now, the house I couldn't wait to get rid of

because it was where I took my Al to die,

is going to belong to someone else.

And it makes me surprisingly melancholy.

I am discovering that that little house

has become more a home than I thought.

It does not have years of wonderful memories

with my beloved.

I still sometimes see his hospital bed in the dining room

where it was placed so he could be a part of the daily activities

when he was awake.

I still remember the many nights I came home from work
after his death

and sat for many minutes in my car

because I couldn't bear the thought of going into a dark, silent, lonely house.

I still remember the days of anguished tears,

the long, sleepless nights.

But I also remember the satisfaction I felt

in the colorful, warm rooms,

the cozy furniture,

the office that made me feel accomplished,

the kitchen where I sat at the island

having my time with the Lord

and looking out at the beauty of His creation.

I remember that I grew more in my relationship with God

while I lived in that house

than at any other time in my life.

It was in that house

that I made the decision,

the conscious choice,

to live not simply exist.

It was there that I did the work.

I had my third date ever with a man other than my Al

while I lived in that house.

I experienced my very first goodnight kiss from a man other than my Al.

I experienced my very first romantic heartbreak.

And I learned to move on.

I romantically broke my very first heart.

And I learned that companionship was not enough,
I needed to love again.

And in that house,

I fell in love with my Lanny Love.

I grew up in that house.

And selling it now makes me a little sad.

Turns out the lining was silver after all

and I am grateful to God for showing me.