Pulling up to the house, tears welled up in my eyes at the first glimpse of the “For Sale” sign planted in the front lawn. It was yet another catalyst for the grief I’ve been experiencing since losing my mom to cancer six months ago. After sorting the contents of my parents’ home of 45 years, it was time to let it go. Imagining life without it made me feel adrift and untethered.
I remember when we toured the model homes and chose the lot where our house would be built. I was six years old and the sting of moving was temporarily soothed by the prospect of living in a two-story house in a brand-new neighborhood. However, my enthusiasm waned when construction wasn’t finished by the time school started. Instead of getting acclimated to our new home, we spent six weeks making the 45- minute commute with our dad to our new schools. Every morning a lump would form in my throat and I’d fight back tears when it was time to leave for school. I dreaded being away from the comfort and security of my mom’s presence. My tearful departures didn’t let up until one day when she leaned down to hug me and said, “Even though I can’t be there with you, Jesus can. Just remember that He’s there holding your hand, no matter what.” Her words were such a comfort to me that my tears stopped flowing. Every day after that I’d plead, “Tell me again, mom. Tell me about Jesus holding my hand.” The angst I’d felt at the start of each day soon faded.
Later that fall, we finally moved into our new home. I loved riding my bike to explore the paths that wound through the greenbelt behind our house. Inside, my brothers and I created a “fort” in a small attic space, piecing together carpet remnants on the floor and hanging posters in the rafters. We signed our names on a beam above the small doorway to make it an official “clubhouse.” In later years, my boys enjoyed exploring the fort and adding their names to the others above the doorway, which remain there to this day.
I remember summer afternoons when the whole family would be in the pool. I spent hours attempting to master back flips off the springy diving board. In the evenings we loved watching brilliant sunsets as orange and pink clouds slowly faded to black. Hot summer nights often called for walks in the neighborhood before sitting on the deck to talk and laugh while eating cold watermelon. Later, when we had kids of our own, the backyard was the scene of many memorable celebrations. I still picture my boys and their cousins frolicking in rafts in the pool, swatting piñatas at family birthday parties, and eating homemade ice cream on July Fourth.
The kitchen was the center of activity in our home. For years I did my homework sitting at the large oval table that faced the backyard. I loved to perch my elbows on the counter and chat with my mom as she made dinner. The ritual of meals around our kitchen table was a source of comfort and security for all of us. Despite the large size of our family, eating together nightly was typical. And many times, there would be extra people in our midst—interns from church, visiting relatives, or neighborhood friends. The number of people we could wedge around the table seemed limitless.
Once my siblings and I grew up and had families of our own, we continued to gather around the table for special occasions. When our kids were little, my mom would fill the kitchen with miniature tables and chairs to accommodate her beloved grandchildren. She didn’t mind how cramped the space became with the extra bodies because she loved having all of us together.
The formal living room was the one place in the house that always stayed tidy. The only time it was messy was on Christmas, which we celebrated there every year from the time I was in first grade until my own children were in high school. I can still picture piles of boxes, gifts, and ribbons scattered around the room. I also remember watching with envy as my older siblings took prom pictures there with their dates; I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn. A few years later I posed for photos in the living room on my wedding day.
So many memories swirl in my mind when I envision my family’s home, it’s hard to imagine someone else living there. In the days leading up to selling it, my stomach lurched every time I pictured the “For Sale” sign. Letting go of the house triggered grief that left me feeling fragile and vulnerable. It was the last tangible link to my parents and my childhood. Selling it made sense, but that didn’t make it any easier. On the day we signed papers agreeing to the sale, an entry in Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling brought me just the reassurance I needed:
“THIS IS A TIME IN YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU MUST LEARN TO LET GO: of loved ones, of possessions, of control. In order to let go of something that is precious to you, you need to rest in My Presence, where you are complete. Take time to bask in the Light of My Love. As you relax more and more, your grasping hand gradually opens up, releasing your prized possession into My care.
You can feel secure, even in the midst of cataclysmic changes, through awareness of My continual Presence. The One who never leaves you is the same One who never changes: I am the same yesterday, today, and forever. As you release more and more things into My care, remember that I never let go of your hand. Herein lies your security, which no one and no circumstance can take from you.” (March 24 entry)
The words reminded me that my security isn’t based on anything in the world, not even good things like my parents or our family home. One line especially caught my attention: “Remember that I never let go of your hand.” I thought back to my mom’s reassurance to me when I was a frightened first grader starting at a new school. She told me that Jesus would be there to hold my hand, even when she couldn’t be. And she was right.
My childhood home doesn’t belong to us anymore, and I’m making peace with that because my true refuge and security didn’t rest there anyway. Jesus promised: “My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14:2-3, NIV) Ironically, one of my mom’s caregivers reminded me of this passage a few days before she passed away.
I’m going to keep putting my hope and trust in the One who provides an eternal home for me: “Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him. Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on God; he is my mighty rock, my refuge.” (Psalm 62:5-7, NIV)
Followers of Jesus look forward to the day we’ll finally be at home with our heavenly Father. Even now, He’s preparing a place for us. Enjoy Cory Asbury’s song “The Father’s House” as you celebrate this truth:
Lastly, take a stroll down memory lane and get a taste of my childhood as you listen to “Our House” by the English band “Madness.” It was released when I was in middle school in the 80’s and quickly became a family favorite. I can still picture my parents dancing to it in our kitchen with goofy grins on their faces.
Sarah Young, Jesus Calling: Enjoying Peace in His Presence, Thomas Nelson, 2004.