I've been back in the area for eight years, married for nearly seven, and it's taken me this long to really have this sense of place, this feeling of being settled and at rest.
So many years were restless, and we just always felt like we were waiting for something, but every direction we pushed only pushed us right back and finally, we bought a house smack in the middle of my hometown, set up our nest and I looked around and said, "In all the world, this nest is the best."
I have the perfect kitchen in this house. It is big enough to hold no less than fifteen pieces of furniture,* big enough for the kids to play here while I cook, big enough for company, big enough for art projects
and for making a really big mess.
It makes me want to do home-ey things like making really distorted loaves of baguette and demanding that I be kissed.
I love our front porch.
I love my neighbors, the kind who pop in and I don't care if my house is a mess, we just sit and gab while the kids go wild . . . the kind who just today brought me homemade muffins.
I love my friends . . . the friends who I can sit and laugh with and who inspire me every single time we get a Girl's Night . . . who one day deserve their own post.
I love that it takes us eleven minutes to get to my parents' house, and it's driving on roads like this:
(my parent's farm)
I love that my mom stops by nearly every morning, love the relationship we have, and the relationship my kids have with my parents.
I love our church, our friends, our community.
I love the ways that I have grown here, the grace that I have found, the way that this turned out to be exactly the right place for us . . .
But today, our house is all clean and starry as Annie would say, there are candles burning and it's all ready to show tonight, because we are selling our house and moving . . .
(to be continued).
I did not say that our kitchen should hold this much furniture, or that my husband is happy about all of the furniture I insist should be here.