We walked through the doors of that little blue house on Walnut Street in May of 1997. I was 20, My Sweetie was 22. He had just graduated from college, we had been married for just under a year and we had a 6 month old baby boy.
I remember walking in those doors and feeling like I was finally able to breath for the first time in about a year. It had been a whirlwind.
Just a year prior I was finishing up my sophomore year at college and planning a wedding. We had gotten married in June; I had moved from my parents’ home into a small home of My Sweetie’s parents just after we were married which we lived in for about 2 months. We then moved about an hour away to college where My Sweetie finished his senior year and worked. Every weekend we packed up and came home to be with family so I could work. In November we had a baby. I had gotten a job back home so I moved in with my parents about 6 weeks before My Sweeties graduation going back to our apartment on my days off. My Sweetie finished college in May and then we packed up and moved again into the little blue house on Walnut Street when he graduated.
As we walked through the door I instantly felt at ease; I finally felt like I could start to get settled into our life. Even though we would share the space with his family for a few more months until their house was finished being built, it didn’t matter because I knew I was home.
Just inside the doors of that little blue house a lot of growing took place over those 13 ½ years; much like a baby growing in a mother’s womb; warm and safe, growing until it was time to leave the safety and warmth of the only thing that baby knew into something else warm and safe-a mother’s arms.
Our maturity and wisdom grew; our marriage grew into something more beautiful than any young, scared, 19 year old bride could have ever dreamt; our family grew to 3 boys; our boys grew more quickly than anyone ever told me they would; our faith grew into something I never could have even wrapped my mind around all those year ago.
Then at just the right time we walked out of the doors of the safety and warmth of the only house our children had known, the house where we had spent most of our marriage, the house that had been cozy and comfortable (literally and financially) through the doors of another house that was warm and safe; The yellow house on the prairie.
On a beautiful Friday afternoon in October our family pulled into the drive way of this yellow house on the prairie. I unloaded the kids, their exciting squeals as I set them free made me smile. I filled my arms with the first things to be carried into our new home and began to walk into the garage (Grin!!).
“WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!!” My Sweetie exclaimed, “Put your coffee down. Put your stuff down.” He said as he practically took it all out of my hands and put it down on the ground.
My handsome groom led me to the front of the house, scooped me up into his arms and carried me over the threshold of the door to yellow house on the prairie.
“Welcome home,” he said and he bent down to kiss me.
Home indeed is where we were and it felt good!!!
Although that little blue house on Walnut Street was the place we called home for so many years and the place where all of our babies took their first steps and celebrated their first birthdays it’s really only a house. All of those memories belong to me and my family, not the house.
The house is not what makes a home a home. A home is created in the living, loving, growing and creating of memories by the family that lives just through the door of a house.