If these walls could speak...

It's Valentine's weekend... February 2015. We're in the middle of moving... something I hadn't planned on, or dared to even dream of at this point in our lives'.... yet here we are. An answered prayer that I never even uttered. Just a deep desire in my heart to have a little more space... but most of all, a home to settle into and dig our roots in deep. A place that my children would remember as they look back on their childhood... and still be able to come home to as adults. We've found that place... or rather, it was literally handed to us out of nowhere. "So... you want to buy my house?" a friend asked David one day at work... "Umm... maybe..." David responded, .... and the rest is history.

As grateful and excited as I am for this beautiful place we will now call home... I am sad and torn to leave our Providence Road house. In just a few days these walls around me will be a distant memory. I try to grasp on to these fleeting moments, my white knuckles giving way... and I look around and study the stains on the walls and gouges in the wooden floors that tell our story. A beautiful story... one with jagged edges and exquisite mountaintops. A story of Providence.

As I walk through this sweet sanctuary on Providence Road... I get lost in a world where the walls around me would narrate my story... and, naturally, there would be a gloriously melancholic soundtrack. 

If these walls could speak... 

They would take me back to 1983 and introduce me to a young quiet boy with two fingers in his mouth and beautiful blue eyes. The youngest of 5 children that dealt with life by drifting with the tide and fading into the background of a busy household.

They would remind me to be patient with this boy, who would grow up quickly as he learned to fend for himself and work unbelievably hard.

These walls would chuckle at the young 26 year old girl coming back from her honeymoon to realize that, in all her efforts to choreograph the perfect entrance for the 20 flower girls in her wedding... she forgot to get the house in any livable condition. This girl would cry herself to sleep that first night... with no furniture in the room or curtains in the windows... but boy... that wedding was totally worth it.

These walls would ask me to 'please, for heaven's sake', stop throwing mugs of coffee at them. They did nothing to deserve such an outburst of anger... and that there has to be a better way to get through to my new (and frightened) husband. And truth be known... if I had taken the time to listen, I'm sure I would've heard them gently suggesting a strong antidepressant and therapist.

These walls would've told me to stop frantically looking for those pills. That my husband hid them because he loves me. They would tell me that the slow and agonizing detox would be worth it. That living life without drugs would be possible and, not just possible, but glorious. They would tell me that feeling pain is ok... because all of the wonderful blessings of life without meds makes the pain bearable. 

These walls would cry with us as we lost our first baby. They would gently remind  young, brokenhearted parents that we would soon have a house full of little ones. 

They would tell a young and exhausted mom to 'sleep when the baby sleeps'... and that crawling around on the floor pretending to be a puppy with Evangeline is totally worth the bruised knees and aching back.

They would softly hum with me throughout the night as I sang to my colicky little boy. They would remind me to hold Elliot tight and cherish these midnight moments, because in the blink of an eye... he'd be 4 years old and calling me 'mom'.

These walls would laugh as they'd recount a frantic mom's first day at home with 3 kids. One pitching a hellacious fit... one smearing poop all over his crib... and a newborn crying to be fed. I dare say my sensitive and caring walls would even give me a pat on the back for throwing the kids in the tub and nursing Adeline while sitting on the dirty bathroom floor without a fowl word or tear... It's either laugh or cry... and by baby #3, you definitely learn to laugh a lot quicker!

These walls would remind me that God is faithful. He has been faithful to my mother-in-law, raising five kids in this house while going to school. He has been faithful to my dear sister-in-law who was once a young mother, raising three little ones here after being diagnosed with cancer. He is faithful. Providence Road has been a milestone for me as I learn to rely on his faithfulness.

These walls would remind me of our 6th wedding anniversary. The one that David spent at home caring for two sick kids while I was stuck in traffic, on my way home from Philly, with a screaming newborn. That was the only anniversary that we've ever been apart... but it was all better as I walked into a clean house with a freshly mopped floor. The idea of romance definitely changes throughout the years.

These walls have witnessed the loss of a second baby. A tearful mother sobbing on the bathroom floor. These walls would remind me not to cry for our third little one buried under the tree outside our window. Our sweet baby isn't really there... we will see him again.

These walls are sending me along to our next haven with beautiful pictures that I will always have. Pictures of three babies and a Millie Precious Darlin' waiting in the front window as I pull into the driveway. A picture of smudgy handprints that I eventually stopped trying to wipe away. Pictures of baby powder tornados leaving paths of destruction from room to room. Pictures of friends, desperate for fellowship (like myself) ...bringing their babies for morning playdates. Pictures of family nights and holidays... birthday parties and cousin sleepovers. 

These hallowed hallways continue to echo the love and laughter that has made it's home in my heart over the past eight years... and after two weeks of getting around to actually posting this... I can say with confidence that you don't leave the memories behind... something I was so afraid of... you bring them with you.