Yesterday, my parents listed their house and are planning to start the next chapter of their life “closer to things”. Which is completely reasonable since they’ve devoted so many years to making sure we grew up in a safe little town. No one has purchased the house yet, but I decided to write this now before I get sad and sappy. It’s a charming and beautiful home, I’m sure someone will make it theirs real soon. 

Dear New Home Owners, 

I know you must be eager to get settled in your new place. It’s a new beginning and that’s always exciting. Before you move in and make it yours, there are a few things I felt you should know. Like new friends, I figured I’d help you get to know each other better by telling you some stories. These walls were my childhood home, a dear member of our family. I think you deserve to hear about about the lives these walls have seen. 

You thought you got a good price on a nice, cozy place, but what you didn’t know is that this is much more than a house. It’s a home. A home is a place you live and share life with the ones you love. It’s a place where memories are created and kept, traditions are upheld and celebrated. It’s a safe place to be creative, happy, sad, angry, or scared. It’s the place where you share laughter and tears, argue and make up. It’s the safe place to land when you fall. This was our home. And, it is my hope that you make her your home too, with loud children, lots of in-laws and clumsy grandpa’s and messy pets.  

Growing up, this home was my favorite place to be. I remember the day we moved in. I was six and my brother was four. The little back bedrooms became sanctuaries to princesses, and airplanes respectively. The room to the left featured a lace canopy bed in her hay day with stuffed animals tucked in real cozy around the clock.  The one straight down the hall sported  wallpaper with clouds on it, really fun bunk beds and hundreds of hanging airplanes. But, it was never just the two of us here. Between sleepovers, neighbor kids, sports carpools, homeschool co-ops and nearby friends, this home was always packed with life. 

Nearly every memory of my childhood is in there; memories that make me who I am today. The kind that shape the woman I have become and the wife and mom I hope to be. I lived there. And I mean, really lived there. 

The big lawn is where Grason got his work ethic. The two tiny crosses on the side of the house are where we first learned about loss. That paint on the walls is new to cover our years worth of rough housing, weird phases, and pencil noted growth spurts. 

The fondest of my memories are the holidays. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving was spent crammed into the living room with extra card tables and chairs surrounded by Mom & Dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and family friends. The magic of that special time of year is forever bottled up into those walls. My Mom and that little kitchen poured out the smell of the holidays and every recipe passed down through the generations of our family. That’s the kitchen where I learned to cook. And the place I learned about life while spending time with all the incredible teachers in our family. There’s where I learned to play piano and that’s the little table where I found Jesus. It’s the place where we celebrated every birthday, and healed from every loss. It’s the last place I spent talking about life with Grandpa over morning coffee. Now that I think about it, I think it’s the last place my Grandpa really lived. It’s the last place he gave me a real hug. He loved being there. For all the same reasons I do. I got that from him. Oh the sweet times and conversations those walls have seen and heard.

Not to mention, the peace that house has given us when we just needed to “come home” and hurt for a while. Those big blue front doors. We spent 16 years bustling in and out of them day in and day out and taking pictures in front of them on special occasions. That’s something I’ll miss. 

Now? Now they’re your front doors. It’s your kitchen. And your family room with the little back bedrooms. It’s hard to put into words why you’re breaking my heart. I really do want to like you. I hesitate to say anything, or write this letter at all so that no feelings are hurt by being attached to a stupid “house”.But, that house was my home long after I had grown and thought I moved on. It was a place to go when I needed to remember who I was, where I was from, and where I was going. It was a place to come and be a kid, even if just for a little while. 

It’s the place where my soon to be husband, then 16, asked Dad if he could take me “out”. It’s the place where we came back to at nine as promised, and the driveway where we took 45 minutes to kiss goodnight. It’s the place I closed my eyes and blurted, “Mom, Kyle’s the one” seemingly out of no where one morning on a weekend back from school and caused her to drop an inherited piece of china on the kitchen floor. Side note: we proceeded to laugh and sweep and talk for several hours.

And, it’s the place we rushed home to the night Kyle and I got engaged to celebrate/cry with all our family and friends.  

It was our home. 

I know that the memories will stay with all of us no matter where life twists and turns. It’s not the house that makes a home, it’s the people in it that do. 

I thought about filling this post with pictures of our happy times and telling you which window is best if you get locked out, but it’s your turn to make her yours and figure out all the quirks along the way. I’m eager for the new memories to be kept and shared by your family in your home. You have cause for celebration, and I hope you enjoy it. Every in-between, big, small, sad, happy moment of it. 

All I ask is that you take good care of her. Love her, will ya? 

Really, the only reason I loved those walls at all is because I got to spend my childhood being loved in it.  Mom and Dad, thank you for giving me us such a wonderful home and community to grow up in. I hope I can give the same to my children someday. 

So, if you see a girl in a latte colored Volvo sitting outside your new house crying occasionally, I’m not crazy, I’m just remembering. 

Welcome Home. 

-Madi