Our House

We fell in love with this property five years ago. The front porch, the five acres, the thought of adding chickens and gardens and grandchildren—it was a dream come true. Travel down the long driveway and you find yourself nestled away in a sort of sanctuary. The deer, the birds, the tall trees—all of it spoke to me. All of it ministered to my soul. All of it helped quiet the angst when soon after landing here I was diagnosed as stage four. I knew it was a place in which, even if I could never fully recover from cancer, I could retreat. 

And retreat I did. When fear or anxiety became too much I would wander outdoors. I’d go into the garden or out to the woods. I’d dig or plant or weed or chop or burn. Somehow it helped. Maybe it’s not every woman’s wiring, but it’s definitely mine. And I probably told my husband about 10,000 times how grateful I was that we had found our way here. How—if we had known this kind of diagnosis was coming, we’d never have sold our last home and bought this big property and house. But because we didn’t know what was ahead—we did. We bought the farm. We bought more than would some day be manageable.

I don’t think we were being greedy. We certainly weren’t trying to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses probably thought us a tad weird or crazy. No, that was never our intent. We loved the charm and the character and the calm. It immediately felt like home. It felt like ours. And oh how we enjoyed these years of making it our own.

We didn’t know that I’d soon be less mobile and constantly exhausted from medications. We didn’t know I’d be challenged getting around the yard or up and down the stairs. We didn’t know what that stress might do to us. I didn’t know what my husband was carrying and trying to keep from me out of his desire to protect and provide. I just kept telling him how thankful I was to have this and how it was helping me deal with my diagnosis. I kept thanking him for making it possible. I kept praising God for His provision. For this paradise. For this sanctuary. For this incredibly special haven in the midst of cancer hell.

And now Rick is gone. And the house must sell. And, though not comparable, both feel completely impossible. One day life is one thing and in an instant it is blown up and blown away and becomes something we could never have imagined. Not for one minute. So much loss. It is hard to not lose my way in it. Hard to not lose myself altogether. Hard to be anything but lost.

We’ve started showing the house to prospective buyers. This is not my first rodeo, so I’m pretty good getting all the things done for a house showing. Especially as I have kids and friends who swoop in and help me in the most incredible ways. They are quick to come and clean and sweep and do. 

But each time, right before the realtors and the buyers arrive, I always have a little time in the house alone. The kids and friends leave. The house empties and I walk the rooms making sure everything is “just so.” 

And, the truth is, it just isn’t. It is not “just so.” In fact, it never will be “just so” again. Not for me. Not for my family.

I walk from room to room and I can see the happy family within the walls. I can hear all the jokes and all the joy. The holidays and the normal days and the crazy, funny, fierce-loving, loud family days. 

I walk all around and make certain every little thing is perfectly in place. And every single thing is in place and clean and pristine and folded and fluffed. But nothing is okay. Our loving husband and father is gone. His office, empty. His closet, too clean. His tools, too tidy. His books and his bourbon and his fishing gear all organized and untouched. It is then that I grieve fiercely. I wander through these rooms and I remember how much love filled each one. I remember it all and I cannot hardly bear to be present in this emptiness and non-existence of our family. I cannot bear to see it all so perfect. So cleaned up and cleared out. Like a lovely magazine layout without any life. Like a beautiful house without anyone home. 

This is when the tears stream down my cheeks and the sobs rack my body. When it is empty and waiting for some new family to arrive and assess its value. Someone else with big dreams and big family desires and big life ahead to live.

I know these rooms will be filled again with laughter and love. I know the pitter-patter of small feet and the squeals of Christmas morning magic will happen here again. Some day for someone new this home will come back to life. I just cannot believe our life in this beloved home with our beloved Rick is over. So abruptly. So unexpectedly. So unbelievably. Over.

It’s a house—a material, earthly, temporal thing. It means nothing in the long run. But it meant much in the short. I’ve always been a house kind of girl. I’ve probably cared too much about feathering my nest. It’s been a joy and a passion. Maybe a little bit of an idol. I’ve had to reel myself in a time or twenty. God wired me for beauty and aesthetics. He designed me to love nature and His creation and to bring the outside in. This home allowed me to do that. Doors always wide open, cut flowers on the countertops, empty bird nests in glass boxes and porches with flower pots or ferns in every corner. There was a time when my kids finally declared, “no more birds or botanical prints, mom!” I had more than met my quota. The temporal should never be a temple, but, if careful, these passions can still point us to Him, our Potter, Designer and Creator. 

Home is where we raised our children. Home is where we rooted and built our family “Live your lives rooted and built up in Him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossains 2: 6-7  That was, and still is, my greatest calling as a mother and our home (our many homes) was the setting and stage of this holy thing. It cradled my calling. How can it not feel like shattered pieces in my hand as I consider selling now to a stranger, to someone who doesn’t know us. Doesn’t know the family who ate meals and played games and watched movies and told stories here.  

This home has held great and grievous sorrow in recent months. But that was a moment in terrible time. That is not who it is. It is a home wrapped in life and laughter. A home full of light and joy. A home which gathers people and feeds souls. Just a year ago a friend and I did a little soul retreat here for a group of women. I opened up my home and welcomed women to spend the day in solitude communing with Christ. Finding quiet corners in the house or yard they used their time journaling, praying and worshipping the Lord. I remember what great pleasure it brought me seeing our home used in such a way. A home can be a holy place.

“Even the sparrow has found a home and swallow a place near your altar.”                                                  ~Psalm 84:3  

It’s been my blog title and hallmark verse since bringing Bella home many years ago. I have always known that my nest~home must be positioned near God’s altar. There was no other choice. Yes, there would be safety, but there would also be sacrifice. There would be surrender. No matter my fingerprints upon it, it would never fully belong to me. It was always His. I, only the caretaker of what it was He so graciously entrusted. I tried to remind myself of that often. To give Him the glory and praise Him for the good and to trust Him and His plan.

This was to be the year our nest would  finally and officially empty. The last child heading off to college. It is inconceivable, and some days quite unbearable, that in the midst of this already tumultuous motherhood season I am also to grieve the loss of my husband. If I’m honest, this dual convergence of emptying feels cruel. 

I titled this post "Our House." And I often catch myself referring to it as ours, when in essence, it is now my house. I'm not sure I will ever get used to moving from our to my in anything. There are so many things to get used to. So many changes.

I will sell this home--my home--and I will rebuild my nest for a new purpose. I have no idea what or where at this point. It’s a bit tricky as a woman with my prognosis and path. I am begging God to do a miracle. To make things new again. To bring beauty from these ashes. I am asking Him to sustain my health and my years and allow me to see His plan and His hand even in this fire. I am begging Him to show me.

“Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my l ife. Rescue me from my enemies, Lord, for I hide myself in you. Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” Psalm 143:8-10

Level ground? It has felt more like unlevel and disheveled these past months. It still feels so. Will it ever not? I can’t answer that. I can only explain that grief continues its course. It is not lined up or linear, it is somedays closer to lunacy. 

But even now, even in this, God is still here. He comes and He quiets. He binds up and He mends. He reminds me of His love for me. He lifts my head. He opens my eyes to the beauty of life. Most days He continues to push me outside to the garden or woods to keep digging, planting, weeding, chopping and burning. My tears mix with the soil while my soul meets with my God. 

He whispers, “Jody, this is not your final home, but only a mere foretaste of what is to come when I call you to your Heavenly Home with me.” Strangely, on March 11th, the day Rick died, that was my devotional. I shared it that morning with our family via text. I’ve attached it below and encourage you to read it. Read also the passage from 2 Corinthians 4. “But we have this treasure in jars of clay …” Yes, jars of clay.

No, we are not meant for this world. We have a place in it for now. A purpose. A mission. Some marching orders. We have a task to tend and a calling to care. But even the most lovely of dwelling places does not compare to what awaits us when we arrive home to Him. Rick is now there. He is home. 

For now, I will continue to nurture and be creative in this life here on earth. I will hold dirt in my hands and I will turn my face to the sun and I will trust the Gardener of my soul as He continues to do His work in me. Digging, planting, weeding, chopping, and burning.

If These Walls Could Speak

~ Amy Grant, 1988

If these old walls could speak
Of things that they remembered well
Stories and faces dearly held
A couple in love
Livin' week to week
Rooms full of laughter
If these walls could speak

If these old halls
If hallowed halls could talk
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun goin' down and dinner bell
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter
If these halls could speak

They would tell you that I'm sorry
For bein' cold and blind and weak
They would tell you that it's only
That I have a stubborn streak
If these walls could speak

If these old fashioned window panes were eyes
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after

If these walls could speak.