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Today we welcomed a complete stranger into our flat. If she liked it, she’ll be the next person living in our sweet little apartment in St. Andrews, Scotland.
It’s odd to tell someone the good, bad and ugly about the place where I’m currently living — about “my” home. It’s strange to think that in just a couple months I’ll be packing up my things, stuffing them into suitcases and lugging them back across the Atlantic. To go…home?
I started this blog back in July when we were getting ready to move overseas for (what we thought would be) a year. At the time we were living in another temporary housing situation, but we were in my childhood hometown. As I’ve gotten older, the concept of “home” has become more and more elusive.
A Childhood Home
I was a lucky kid. I grew up my entire life on one street. Yes, we moved when I was eight, but only three houses down the road. Mountain Hill Road was “home” from the ages of 2 to 18, and I liked it that way.
My nomadic lifestyle started at soon as I left for Hillsdale College, a whole 15 hours by car away from “home.” Yet within the first month after arrival, I remember telling my roommate, “Hey! I’ll meet you at home later.” It hit me hard — I had called somewhere other than Mountain Hill Road “home.”
Saying Goodbye
And good thing.
When I went “home” for Thanksgiving, my parents told me our house had sold, and we were moving right after Christmas. My poor parents — I was a force to be reckoned with. I’d like to say I handled this like an adult, but I didn’t. I acted like the 2 year old who moved on Mountain Hill Road 16 years prior. I was livid that they would take away “home” (even though I’d never live there for more than a couple months at a time ever again).
But it sure is a wonderful thing they moved! Although their previous house was just as beautiful, I got to hold my wedding reception at their pond-side home and it was absolutely magical.
All The Homes
Yet, since that day, “home” has been Olds, The Paul House, The Treehouse, The Kirby Center House, The Suites, my parent’s new home, the cottage on their property, and now our flat in Scotland. I’ve called Hillsdale, MI, Washington, DC, and St. Andrews, UK “home” — and when I refer to our move back to Massachusetts, I say “We’re moving home.”
Even though I’ve hardly lived at my parent’s new home, I never call it “my parent’s house.” I call it “home.” And yet when Casey and I were vacationing in Rome I referred to this St. Andrews flat as “home.”
Casey is currently deciding between two jobs offers (thank the Lord!) and whatever apartment nearby we move into will become “home.” We will spend maybe a month or two of the summer living in that little cottage again, and then we will move to a new spot — our tiny baby will have two “homes” in her first weeks of life.
Will We Ever Settle Down?
The other day I was looking at our “debt-repayment plan” and our “save for a down payment” plan. We might be able to buy a house in the next three years if we live extra frugally, save every spare penny and things go “according to plan” (and when do they ever?).
Staring at the numbers, I couldn’t help but wonder, “How many more places will we call home before we can really settle?”
You might not have caught on yet, but I really hate moving. I find it overwhelming and heartbreaking. I dream of our little house and plot of land with a few goats, a bunch of chickens and a hive of bees. And I begrudge every temporary “home” on the way to that end.
But why?
This Isn’t Home
Every time I pack up my things, I should be properly reminded that this world isn’t my home. Even if I had a house and land and goats, I still wouldn’t be home. This world, and all it’s trappings, are temporary.
The act of sending out tiny roots and ripping them up again and again keeps me grounded — we read on Sunday that not even Christ had a place to lay his head. If I found home right now, it’d be all too easy for me to forget that this isn’t all there is.
I love Carrie Underwood’s song “Temporary Home.” I love it because it convicts me: I’ve never been a foster child or homeless — even if “home” only stays so for a handful of months, I’ve always had a roof over my head and a safe place to sleep.
But I also love it because it ends with that beautiful reminder that this entire universe is our “temporary home.” Even if you lived in the same building from birth to death, it would never be your real home.
That, my friends, is heaven.
Going Home
With every move, I’ve gotten better at moving. God’s given me the grace and strength to pack up and get going, and with each successive transition, I’ve cried fewer tears, and endured fewer breakdowns.
I always planned in my mind that when our first baby came along we’d have a more permanent place to set up her crib. I’m embarrassed to confess that I cringed scrolling through Pinterest-perfect baby rooms thinking that our little one probably won’t even have a nursery.
But you know what? That’s ok. She won’t remember!
And if we’re still moving five, ten, fifteen years from now, she’ll have learned early on that home isn’t four walls and a roof — it’s the pearly gates at the end of this wonderful journey.
Every moment, of every day — even when curled up in our own beds — we’re all “going home.”
Beautifully said, Natalie ♥