A Home for Chelle

 I lived in all kinds of houses growing up. The first one I remember is the basement of my Grandparents' house in Sandy. This one seems the most familiar to me and was probably home the most often. I vaguely remember  a small apartment in Tennessee-mostly I just remember being right outside our door, we were upstairs, and watching people of the complex. One weird memory is watching people eat something out of tube that looked like toothpaste and I was kind of disgusted but also very curious and wanted to try it. I remember our Virginia Beach house a bit better, with it's separate dinning room I thought was so fancy. I remember the backyard of my Oklahoma house because I spent many, many hours out there playing pioneers, or Star Wars, or orphanage. There was a big scary dog on the other side of the dilapidated fence, and I remember being scared and curious about that dog. I don't remember the inside of that house as well. Then there was our Clarksville, Tennessee house where I had my own room with one of those windows that pop out and you can sit in the window area. I loved that about my room in that house. I remember Montana even better because I was older of course. I slept in the basement where I kept a heater running constantly until it was 80 degrees in my room. I hated the cold. There was a den in the basement that I remember liking. And a small kitchen and eating area that had a porch that faced the school. I remember this because one time I was heading out the back door to school and a boy was out at the school across the street and I slipped on the ice on our deck steps and fell flat on my back in front of him. So embarrassing, but I laughed.  Lastly was my Carolina house, which I remember the best with it's big windows in the dining area and my own room I decorated with pictures all over the walls of my friends. 

I loved all these houses, I think, and was always sad to see them go. There was always a part of me that wanted one house, one to call my own with all the memories. I wanted a house that felt like home. Now I go home to my parents house and it feels foreign to me. It's not my home. I've never lived there. But I don't mind. The nomad inside of me created by all our moves just accepts it, there is no home for me.

But tonight, I snuggle Brad on the couch and we watch a show and I look at my house. This house that I never dreamed of because it was too wonderful. The house that helped get me through post partum depression as we drove here daily after I had my third. It was so fun to see the daily progress. This house that when I came and saw the gorgeous cabinets and counters in, I cried. It was too good. Too wonderful. To nice. I was undeserving.

Then it was still a house, but quickly becoming a home as it worked it's way into my heart. I didn't want to believe it. It was too good to be true. I still even have nightmares of losing our home. (And who knows, some day I still may.) Part of me felt for long that it's just too good to be true. There is no home for me. I am a nomad. There is no place to rest my head. 

But this house pulled at me, longing for me to love it. To let it in. To let it surround me with it's safety. Winning me over and making me want to fill it with love and make it a home. To let down my guard a little and say, maybe there is a place for me. Maybe this is it. 

So many times when I am in the throes of depression, one echoing thought that pounds in my head is this. "You have no home. You have no where to go. You are not safe. You have no where. There is no home for you." I long to "go home", but I don't know where home is. I long for a safe place. A place to shelter my body and broken heart. I think "There is no home for me."

But this house stands strong for me, reminding me that while I have no home from the past, I can make this home. It is here for me. It's been here for me in some of my darkest time. Keeping me safe. Keeping me warm. Giving me a place to grow my family and grow our love. A place to make them food, nourishing food for their growing bodies. A place to gather and snuggle and watch our shows. A place to play games, laugh, enjoy each other. A place to learn from our mistakes and to grow with one another. A place to try again. A place to weep, sorrow, mourn as I lay on its soft, cradling carpet. A place to plan for the future. A place to dream. A place to leave for adventure, but come home to steady consistency and safety. A home. A home for Chelle.