The concept of "home" has come up frequently in discussions with family, friends, and this box I type my thoughts into. I've mentioned before that home, for me, is the two houses my grandparents have inhabited for my entire life. Realizing what home is to me is one thing, but now I am trying to wrap my head around the fact that, this weekend, I am losing one of those homes. People get older, health slowly declines, plans are made - before you know it, one of the most stable parts of your childhood is crumbling before your eyes.
The house on Johnson Lane was not just a house. It was the house where Grandma and Grandpa lived, where there was always an open bed, homemade goodies in the freezer, where shelves and walls were lined with cherished keepsakes and tokens of our heritage. It was the house where Larsons, Ericksons, and Becks gathered for shared meals, favorite songs, Ole & Lena jokes, silly string wars. It was the house where we worked together to make lefse, donuts, and pies. It was the house filled with outdated wallpaper, carpet, and light fixtures that I will always remember.
Those 4 walls contain more than just a house. It was a home - not just to me, but to an entire family. And while I may get teary at the thought of saying goodbye to that home forever, I know that my treasure is not here on earth, "where moth and rust destroy" (Matthew 6), but in heaven. I will keep clinging to that truth while I allow myself to mourn this loss. I think that letting this material thing go will be one important step in the process of eventually saying goodbye to one of the people who made that home so significant.
