Friday, November 28, 2008


I'm home for Thanksgiving. I love coming home. There is something so comfortable to me about my house and my family. I realize not everyone feels this way about going home. I used to think everyone did, but within the last few years I've come to understand that not everyone feels so welcome and comfortable at home. My parents have really created a safe house for me. Although I'm almost 40 (one day) I still feel pretty transient in my young professional life. This is still coming home for me.

The only time my parents defied this safe zone was last year. I have a younger sister who still lives at home and she wanted my old bedroom. We have seven different bedrooms in our house. All my siblings are married except my younger sister and I. She could have picked ANY ROOM IN THE HOUSE. She wanted mine. I found out when I went home for a weekend and ran up to my room to dump my belongings. When I opened the door I was shocked to find my room filled with posters and pink and pillows and piles (piles everywhere). I ran downstairs and my mother started apologizing and claiming her own innocence. She never would have let it happen, it was all my dad and my sister. This did feel like a violation. They didn't even set me up a room elsewhere. They just dumped all my stuff in a closet. I haven't bothered setting it up either. Maybe it's because I realize I don't really live there anymore. Perhaps I shouldn't have a room that's mine there. (that's just silly) It's funny to me because it's not a big deal, but it still bothers me. Every time I come home now I can pick from any other room in the house. I want my old one. I still do. And I want all my stuff put back.

But there are a lot of things I still love: the carpet, the fruit bowls, my dad's fake fire that's been glowing in the fire place for 3 years running (of which he is incredibly proud), the trees that surround my house, the hours we are forced to spend removing the leaves, the food--all the food--from the grand slams to the smorgasbord to disappointing soup nights that have now become appreciated, Mormors pleas for more ice cream, the little dog getting yelled at in German, the sound of the dishwasher at night when we're supposed to be asleep, the candles in the window, my dad asking questions he already knows the answers to, singing time, clean up time, movie time,

prayer time.

I think that is one of the greatest things about coming home. I am really thankful for my parents faith and example. They have such a great love of God. I rely on them for a lot of strength and support. I can be really stubborn, there have been many times that I hear my dad call everyone to pray and I roll my eyes and secretly hope that it will be a short one. Even though I may react this way, I also notice that I love it. I love the spirit that's there. This is what is so great about coming home. It like a filter. When I come through the door only the most important things come with me. So much is left outside. When I leave I may pick it right back up again, but for a little while I could relax, rest, trust my parents and trust God.