I was reading a devotion this morning and the author started out by reminiscing about life in her first home. That got me to thinking about Bill and my first home.
It definitely wasn't anything special. It was quite small, actually. I was scared of the basement. It was a nice, finished basement, but in the summer, there were several scary wolf spiders that crawled around...ewww. I didn't have a pantry, and we had to pull the kitchen table out every time we had anyone over to eat. The master bedroom was so small that one side of our bed had to go against the wall, so every time I woke up, I had to crawl out over Bill. The neighborhood was a tad scary. I once had a random female (obviously on some kind of drug) ring my doorbell at midnight and ask for Herb.
But, there was something about that home. It was our first home together. We made it ours. We updated, painted, planted a ton of flowers and worked a garden. We brought Luke home in that house. The neighbor boys were so sweet. We took them under our wing, and they spent quite a bit of time at our home before we had kids. There was always something to watch as I looked out my kitchen window while I was either cooking supper or doing dishes.
I miss that house~maybe I just miss being in Lincoln. Every once in awhile, Bill and I take a jaunt down West A street to take a peek at the house on SW 10th. I wonder if the new owners changed anything. Did they paint over my red wall in the kitchen? What about all of the flowers in the back...are they watering them?
Is it weird to have an emotional attachment to a house? I'm sure I will feel sad if/when we ever move from this one as well. I think it's because one of my jobs as a stay-at-home mom is to make a house a "home". I take pride in wherever I live. But, most of all, it's important to keep in mind that just because I may leave a home, it does not mean that the memories leave too.