I love going home. For some reason I still call it “home” even though I’m living completely on my own. I can’t quite bring myself to say “my parents’ house.” Not only is a lot of my stuff still there, but it’s just so comfortable, so familiar… the quirky collection of books filling the shelves, the ancient leaking refrigerator, the well-used ping-pong-table-turned-storage-space in the basement… and I can drive around the streets I’ve traveled since childhood; the neighborhood may develop with a new store opening here and a new road there, but it’s still essentially the same.
I probably inherited my own disorganization from my family… my house has always been a bit messy. The kitchen table always has an assortment of random stuff on it, the basement is forever cluttered and dusty, there are piles of stuff in the upstairs hallways that we can never seem to get rid of. I remember – back when I was in middle school and just entering that age where one starts to be self-conscious about everything humanly possible – being embarrassed because our bathrooms weren’t as pristine as those at my friends’ houses. Some of them had shining, perfectly tiled white floors, immaculate sinks, sleek new toilets, and trendy shower curtains, whereas ours – no matter how often mom cleaned them – had peeling wallpaper and perpetual gunk between the tiles and decidedly un-trendy toilets and discolored bathmats…. but this is the mark of parents who believe it much more important to invest their money in their children, friends, and church than in remodeling their bathrooms and replacing the 20-year-old, still-working-perfectly-well toilets with the latest FlushMaster 3000. A decade later, my opinion about bathrooms has come a long way. Recently I was in a friend’s bathroom that was so chic and well-kept and antiseptically clean-smelling that I was practically afraid to use it for fear of disturbing its perfection…
My house has character. It may be messy, but every piece of “clutter” – from the eccentric books to the assorted refrigerator magnets to the “Reasons we love mom” and “Reasons we love dad” posters on my parents’ bedroom door – tells a story of a family that has lived well and loved well.
I’m now realizing what a privilege it has been to have grown up in a single place and be able to return there, even as a young adult, to a house that holds so many good memories – from long afternoons spent exploring the woods, to playing assault in the family room, to the time David sneezed yogurt all over the kitchen table while mom was on the phone. I laugh and cry just remembering everything…
In a few days, I will be 23. I can hardly believe it – 23 sounds so young, and yet I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in this not-even-quarter-century. I am so thankful and so blessed to have had all these experiences… if I were to die tomorrow, people would say “what a shame, she had her whole life ahead of her” – but I would be satisfied with even just these years, which have been so rich and so full of good things. It’s a nice way to live – reflecting fondly on the past with no (ok, very few) regrets, looking forward to the future, but in the meantime thoroughly enjoying the present.
