I came home from work the other day, kicked off my flats, slipped my earrings into a tiny bowl on our kitchen windowsill, and bent down to scratch the dogs’ heads.
It’s so good to be home, I murmured to them, their soulful eyes squinting at me with pure love, tails wagging in response to my low, hushed tones.
Delicious, that peaceful feeling of home. I beckoned Alexa to play a little George Winston as I sank into our oversized chair and closed my eyes.
Home. My favorite place.
There is little doubt: I am a happy, happy homebody.
***
On writing days, I walk into my office and read the framed canvas adorning the wall:
Home is where our story begins.
The first home of my memory was a beauty, indeed, an antique New England farmhouse, neatly squared off into several apartments. One decade of my childhood played out in this pretty little town where apple blossoms fluttered and good neighbors inhabited stately homes. The majority of breadwinners in our town earned large paychecks and bought all of the fine things. None of this mattered even a smidgen to me–I adored our road and humble apartment but was mostly swept up by the great outdoors. The landscape surrounding our farmhouse signaled home. The treasures of God’s countryside were grand–the magical seasons; distinct and true.
I close my eyes now and journey back into a different era…the rustling wind in those back fields, my hands brushing the swaying grass as I ran freely, hours before the tractor rumbled out back for baling.
My little brother, Tommy, and I romped, laughing and yanking thick blades of sun-scorched grass, stretching the slips tightly between our thumbs, and blowing hard to create a whistle. Plucking bouquets of purple thistle, we sipped its pure, sweet honey, pretending we were brave nomads staving off famine in foreign lands.
As we skipped under the clothesline and beneath the billowy bedsheets, we allowed the soft cotton to brush our faces before racing each other to the crabapple tree. There we twirled on swings–a wooden bench, and a dangling old tire.
The tips of our sneakers circled the dirt, spinning us around and around as the tractor arrived and circled the field, cutting neat bales. The sun warmed our faces, sparkling against the sky-blue backdrop, as a faint breeze cooled, whispering future promises of fall. In a few months, the maple trees would glow brilliant orange, rich yellow, and fiery red.
My parents’ landlord, the retired Mr. Golden, scrupulously tended the property alongside his wife. Only now do I fully appreciate their attentive devotion to caring for the expansive grounds. They spent long days outdoors, backs bent weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil before gently dropping and bedding the seeds. Their long shadows cast dreams of future abundance, brilliant flowers and vegetable gardens.
At their garden’s edge, I crouched, spying on the throngs of earthworms wiggling, racing downward, burrowing into the depths of the dark, rich earth. Soil that, given time and sunshine and rain would yield potatoes, corn, tomatoes, summer squash, zucchini, beans, pumpkins, and peas. The straight, tidy rows and bright growth were lovely, prompting a poem to bubble up inside, a child-like string of words that I scribbled down but shared with no one. I remained shy about the fire burning within, a flame sparked by both the beauty of God’s creation and the enormity of words that infused my spirit.
A stone’s throw past the wide rectangular garden lay a cluster of raspberry and blackberry bushes. Tommy and I were given permission to feast freely, and we did–liberally. Our mouths and fingertips were stained purple on those hot summer days, as we paused our play to snack.
We perched cross-legged atop an old, heavy millstone, which lay flat beneath the impressive maple in the front yard as we downed berries. For an entire decade, this millstone anchored us and served in happy ways: home base for games of tag, a picnic table for our peanut butter sandwiches, and the consummate spot to wait for our shiny yellow school bus to come chugging down the road.
Tommy and I built a hidden fort in the front woods. A cobblestone wall bordered the spot, and we hacked away at the thick underbrush to make our playhouse maneuverable. He swung from a heavily braided rope swing, sailing high and stretching far as he let go and landed with the ease of a cat, grinning wide, those dimples etched deep. When it was my turn, I swung but was terrified to let go, clinging to the rope until my arms ached.
One day we heard a noise coming from our fort. A pitiful mewing. As it turned out, a stray cat had caught its front leg within its loosened collar, leaving the skin rubbed raw and hot with infection. Our neighbor paid for a vet visit, but the antibiotics proved too little too late, and the poor creature, mere skin and bones, died.
Across the road lay a lazy pond, and at the far end of the calm was a steep, rushing dam. My brother and I had been told that once upon a time, a teenager had stubbornly ignored all cautionary warnings, and sauntered across the top of the dam– showing off for friends. She slipped and died after colliding headfirst with a rock.
So death, too, was as much a part of home as life, and we remained careful, our memories pulsing long.
At the pond’s edge were clusters of Concord grapes. The dark, plum-colored skin was tough, but the inside fruit was delicious; satisfyingly tart. Sometimes we spied female snapping turtles nestled and hidden beneath the grape vines, preparing to lay their eggs. In time, those baby turtles peeked their tiny heads out from their shells, wide-eyed while observing the enormous world.
This entire scene?
Home.
From field to yard to fort to millstone to berry bushes to pond.
Oh, yes.
The rowboat, too.
***
I recently told my husband that I am wishing for a rowboat.
He nodded, his mind in other places.
To be fair, I have murmured about row boats for years. No motor, nothing fancy or pretty. Just an aluminum rowboat with a pair of wooden oars.
I pictured it in vivid detail and then sighed. For better or for worse, the inescapable truth is this: I am a person who forever thinks and processes by writing.
The stories I jot down go unspoken.
So when I tell Jon: I am wishing for a rowboat, what I am really saying is this:
I long to return to the feeling of damp earth squishing on my bare feet as I push an old rowboat from the pond’s shoreline. I wish for one more gentle trip around the pond, my fingers dipping in the cold water as my brother paddles, and we count turtles and fish and tadpoles and frogs, pointing and naming them aloud, while our life vests, old and ripped, rise stiffly and bump against our chins.
I want to paddle out to the middle, where the bottom is dark and deep and frighteningly thrilling, the snapping turtles dangerous, and the painted turtles abounding. I want to switch places with Tommy and feel the boat wobble and tip just a little, taking my turn to row so my younger brother can cast his fishing line and get a nibble, the tug creating lovely ripples in the otherwise still water. I want to see him grin, happy as we circle the pond, spinning stories about the dam, and wondering what might happen if we took the boat just a bit closer.
I want to scoop up tiny tadpoles in an old pickle jar and watch them, just because, before freeing them to the pond, their home.
I want to push the boat back to shore, shoving it high up on the dirt, and hear Mr. Golden holler: “Kids! Turn the boat over and hide those oars underneath and then come see what I caught!” which always meant one thing: a ring-tailed raccoon trapped and hissing, unwilling to release his fisted prize: the ball of aluminum foil which lured him from corn thieving by moonlight.
I long to feel the sun on my face, the berries on my tongue, and the joy of twirling on a tire swing while inhaling the perfect smell of freshly mowed grass. I want to remember the sweetness in penning little love poems to God, thanking him for making this big, wide, beautiful world full of leaves, trees, grass, clouds, birds, fish, cats, and raccoons.
Sometimes, I ache for that feeling of home.
But all I say is: Wouldn’t it be fun to have a rowboat?
***
We were standing on a dock recently, as Jon officiated a wedding. It was appallingly hot and humid, but nevertheless, the bride and groom glowed, happy at their new beginning.
Life is forever shifting, isn’t it?
Fresh beginnings–and not always welcome ones–are legion.
Always we begin again.
We eventually bid adieu to childhood homes, trading them in for grownup residences and marriages. Children are born; the home bustles noisy with new life, as the space swells. In the blink of an eye, children grow tall and take wing, and the home exhales, standing still and quiet and different and tired. The walls bear witness to beautiful and fun and exquisite and sad and painful memories. Those walls remain hushed as old age creeps in and settles: another type of beginning.
Home is elusive.
We believe we have captured its essence when it sways, shifts, and changes.
I was pondering all of these things as the wedding ceremony on the dock progressed when I began to feel motion-sick.
The dock was swaying, only slightly. But just enough to disrupt my equilibrium.
And isn’t that the image of our earthly dwelling? Of home? A solid structure forever swaying on moving waters?
Unsteady, I tell you.
***
The other day my brother texted me current photos of our ancient stomping grounds.
It stung–and sliced–to see the grounds in a state of neglect. Mr. and Mrs. Golden passed away decades ago, their fidelity to their magnificent acreage laid to rest.
The grass is now dry and shabby, the bushes overgrown and laced with weeds, the gardens a patch of nothingness. The millstone is no longer flat beneath the radiant maple but has been propped upright and decorated with a metal inscription; declared historic.
Nothing feels the same, save the tire swing, which dangles beneath the crab apple tree.
The truth?
There is no going back.
It is the kaleidoscope of memories that remains.
***
So I have heaved this longing for home garment off my shoulders and offered it back to God, returning to the surety of his Word. He will wash the garment and iron it and clothe me in it one day, soon.
In the meantime, I am steadied by Acts 17:26-27:
And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us.
Earthly times and dwellings are part of God’s good design– a shadowy likeness of the true Christian’s forever home. God is near to us, such frail creatures of dust and rib, designed in his image and pining for home.
Our heart’s cry?
To enter a perfect and stable dwelling, no longer East of Eden.
***
Today was a writing day.
I studied my sign as I walked into my office: Home is where our story begins.
But there is a bit more to it.
Redeemed by Christ, home is where my story ends.
That ache burning deep in my bones is a cry for heaven, a longing to see Jesus face to face. He has gone to prepare a place for me, and when I arrive, my yearning for home will be forever satisfied.
Thank you, dear readers, for indulging me with a post from the archives. Rather than tapping the keyboard this week, my hands have been holding and rocking our beautiful new granddaughter, born last Thursday. God is kind.
I invite you to sign up for my Zoom writing class taking place in June.
The Palest Ink 