House on the Rock

A Cheesy Rhyming Reflection about our First Married Home

The boxes are packed and stacked ceiling-high. The truck and the trailer are waiting outside. Our valiant team of movers is in the parking lot below, waiting to be told what to lift and where to go. We’re bidding farewell to our west-facing spot, perfect for sunset views o’er the Walmart pickup lot. It’s been home to the most competitive Catan games ever seen, the hardest conversations, and every second in between.

We’re moving into a 3-bed, 2-bath ranch we designed, with board-and-batten shutters and bright white walls inside. We picked out the cabinets, the carpet, the floors. The cozy front porch and the tricorn black doors. But as excited as I am to have our own space, I can’t put into words how much I’ll miss this place.

I remember coming home from our honeymoon on a Tuesday. I had a meeting at school, so I headed that way. I got caught in the whirlpool of my first roundabout, wheeling several laps before finally being spit out. In the wrong lane, unable to merge, wrongly headed south and desperate to diverge. Honked at, flipped off, burst into tears. I thought, I’m never gonna survive living here.

But that roundabout slowly became something I knew, as did neighbors like Ovidio and Sue. Sue invited us to come see her play and Ovidio had us over for a Romanian dinner one day. My prideful un-pickiness was brought to a stop as he lathered sardines on a zesty lamb chop. But we celebrated the blessing of neighbors becoming friends — walking and talking on summer weekends.

Sweet morning quiet time, guest room workouts, jam sessions with Joe and his guitar on the couch. College friends packing in for girls’ nights galore. Pregnancy announcements from friends we adore. Time and time again attempting to bake bread, then DoorDashing a Domino’s pizza instead. Laughing on the balcony while eating chips and guac, and watching Friday Night Lights together far past ten o’clock.

Early marriage confessions about giving more grace, frustrated pleas to please clean up this place. Taking in a teen who had no where else to go, and every nasty stomach bug that had us laying low. Crying in the kitchen about my mom having cancer, and laying on the floor begging God for an answer. Weeping in that bedroom over the child we miscarried, and going back there to sob on the day Mom was buried.

In almost every way, this place is just a place. It has stairs that crumble and often not enough space. But it’s been home to so many soul-shaping fights, morning glories and the darkest of nights. We have grown here. We have loved here. We have felt the Lord be near. He has shaped us, refined us, and drawn us in each year.

And I know He’ll do the same on Pinebark Lane. I know He’ll hem us in behind and before no matter what address lines our front door. But I have to rejoice in the work He’s done here, and I hope to never forget these three wonderful years. It hasn’t always been good, but it is always well. Here’s to the best apartment on earth: CL!