All posts tagged: home

A wide path {a story of hurt, home and hope}

“You have made a wide path for my feet to keep them from slipping.” {Psalms 18:36} Although I had multiple fractures in my left leg and an incision ten inches long from my sternum to my belly button, held together with staples, they sent me home from the hospital with a walker, not a wheelchair. For almost two weeks, my only job was to begin recovery; my days were filled with pain management, morphine hallucinations, a constant stream of beautiful friends and family, and the excruciating ¬†initiation into physical therapy. The day came when my lung (once crushed and residing near my shoulder) was healed to the point that my oxygen intake levels were declared “a-ok” and I was told I could go home. Home. Home is where we were heading when the drunk driver failed to stop at the sign and blazed across the highway. Honestly, I was scared to go home. I was so weak, so plagued with pain…how could I go home? Home is where I take care of my family, cook …

What NOT To Put In Your Hope Chest

I was a girl with a hope chest. It was a solid, cedar, handcrafted thing with dovetail corners and walls over an inch thick. It was designed to last and protect whatever treasures were placed within it. My dad found it for sale and took it home to finish the job another craftsman had begun. He presented his reclaimed, refinished gift to me on a sunny California summer day, my eighteenth birthday. About a year later, I met and fell in love with a guy God handpicked to be my husband. I began filling my hope chest with items that reflected the dreams I had for our marriage. And it’s funny, but none of the treasures were really that practical. I tucked into my chest china cups and doilies, embroidered things and silverplate dishes. I didn’t know to pack things like a set of tires to replace the ones that would wear out just when we didn’t have the money, or a packet full of rent for the many times when we would find ourselves …

On Every Leanin’ Side

A full week had passed since I’d seen her. It was a busy week for me. I’d met with experts and visited with dozens of people that week. I hardly slept; food, five courses delivered at breakfast, lunch and dinner, sat barely eaten. Although that week was busier than I could have imagined, I found myself pausing, lingering long on deep sighs, yearning to be together again. Because even though I was exactly where I needed to be, I wanted to be home. Just a week earlier, my hand brushed the iron knob on death’s door. I came so close I nearly pushed it’s rough surface and crossed the threshold from life to death. But I was saved, and with some help, I was living still. While I spent my days and nights under expert medical care, my youngest daughter slept over with cousins, swam in the silver sunlight of waning summer and played in the garden with her brother. Until I was well enough to see her, she cried and wondered, processed and prayed …

The Sun Has Long Been Set

June flew by like so many moths dancing at dusk toward the setting sun. After a July night of sisters, I drove home under the light of a lazy, hanging half moon, grateful for the knowing that my husband would have fallen asleep waiting for me, that my front stoop would welcome with the scent of petunias and pansies, and that I need not parade and masquerade on such a night as this {see the Wordsworth poem below}. During those last, concluding miles of a road trip, something in your soul feels an even greater the tug toward home. The adventures, the mishaps and the memories of your trip lay jumbled in suitcases with dirty socks and sightseeing brochures, but you move with the instinct that leads the homing pigeon to its roost and you know those things can wait until morning to be unpacked and sorted. Those first few minutes reacquainting with the house, checking the yard, flinging wide windows to fresh air, glancing at the mail without needing to open any of it …

…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. …