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…home…

I made my home under an antique table. For a few months, anyway.

It’s round walnut surface spread over me like an umbrella. In its three-foot circle of shade I found shelter; a room without walls but secluded comfort nonetheless. I settled into the dark orb and sometimes allowed my toes or fingertips to splash in the golden lamplight pooling on the oak plank floor.

There I was: me. That’s all.

We’d moved six times in my eight years. Home couldn’t be a place, a house with a yard or neighborhood friends. Letting my tender sprouting roots sink into any place only ended with a yank, and there we were again — moving. The roots I call home resemble more of a tangle of siblings, a pair of parents, and a parade of possessions that managed to make the cut each time the U-Haul was packed. Home traveled with me from state to state and eluded me at the same time.

I kept a small box with a lid. Inside were my treasures, my home.

In my box:

a feather;

two shells from the Gulf of Mexico, my first time to the sea;

two halves of a plain gray rock that held a miracle of amethyst crystals, a secret that survived unnoticed until I unearthed it and my daddy broke it apart with a smack of a hammer;

a few brass jingle-bells, exotic since they came from India;

a wordless book from some Sunday School award box;

a miniature crocheted panda bear, a gift from my oldest sister.

These were my treasures, my home while I had none.

We were living with my brother and his wife, a beautiful lady who laughed when she tried to teach me how to bellydance, while my dad and brother renovated his century-old house in Palouse, Washington. I slept in the travel trailer in the driveway with my parents, where my mom tried to make life consistent. We even ate family meals around the trailer table and then converted the space to my “bedroom”.

I tumbled through third grade and remember some significant firsts. My first taste of alcohol (rum and coke), my first exposure to pot-smoking, my first full scale attack from the popular mean girl, my first time in public school, my first time to crawl through a secret passageway in an old train station house, my first crush.

My box of treasures spent many hours with me under the table. They were my memorial stones, tangible proofs of me. I never dumped the treasures, but I removed them one my one and considered. I enjoyed them. They kept me company.

I would watch my daddy and brother tromp around (focusing mostly on the waist down, considering my particularly substrate vantage point) as they built the new kitchen on that old house. I thought of Jesus, building a place for me. I wondered if he tromped around in work boots, tool belt swathed around his waist ready for the task of building my home in heaven.

I decided then and there that I like the idea of staying in one place for all of eternity.

I liked that idea very much.

{This post was inspired and is linked up to Peter Pollock’s Blog Carnival – One Word http://peterpollock.com/2011/06/home-blog-carnival/ and can be found on his list with lots of other bloggers’ ideas about ‘Home’}

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6 Comments

    • Thank you! By the way, I had a very good friend in middle school named Anne Lang! Her mom made us huckleberry pancakes.

  1. Now that is cool thought of Jesus with his carpenter belt and hammer building us our home. I just expected He would do it with words like when He created the heavens and the earth. I like the thought too that when we see Jesus we will have a permanent eternal home.

  2. Very abstract. Simply wonderful. I too, like that idea very much.
    I’m a sucker for a powerful ending, thanks.

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