I awoke to rumbles of thunder outside my bedroom window in Katy. It was the last time for me to wake up here. I feel perfectly neutral about this mile marker. The house is a part of my life in Katy where I will shut the door and not think about it again, even though we lived here longer than any other house we have owned. If the beautiful views here were made by God and not by man, I would have separation anxiety now, but I can live without a builder’s dream that became a homeowner’s burden. I even slept in this morning because all the things I might normally do as a mom in the house are all packed away. The crew was kind enough to not touch a thing in my bedroom, yet. They promised to arrive at 7:30 this morning. Sigh. The house has been filled with men who play their radios loud in every room, and ask me questions about our personal things. It’s part of the job, I understand. I’m just not so cozy with my home feeling this way. Kira’s bedroom is piled high with boxes and her bed is leaning against the wall. She’s asleep in Craig’s closet in the portable crib. Oh my if you could have heard her holler for the two minutes after we closed the door. It was ten o’clock when we put her to bed. She really only cried for at the most two minutes. We cooed and assured her that everyone has to suffer in the midst of a move.
Moving reminds me how important home is to me. Sooo important. While others treat this buying and selling as a business deal, I’m wrought with emotion because it’s entirely a personal matter for me. When I was a young wife, I studied homemaking like it was my master’s program. I didn’t grow up with a stay at home mom so home from my memory was different from what I imagined my home would become. I read books to learn how to clean. That made my mother-in-law howl with laughter, but I didn’t know how to do it the most efficient way. I taught myself to sew and took a summer job as a window treatment seamstress so I could learn. I hated doing laundry but somehow over the years I’ve figured a way to make that a pleasant activity in my daily routine. Cooking is something I learned the old fashioned way growing up observing the techniques of my stepdad as he is the best cook. What I learned is if I open a cookbook I can make anything as long as I had a few good techniques, a sharp knife, and quality ingredients. Gardening is something I also taught myself when the children were young. It was a natural extension for my creative urges for combining design, function and beauty. (with a dash of romance). Interior design has always been my homemaking first love. I took design classes at the Art School at UofM for fun, and the art majors were so relieved I wasn’t in the art school. That’s a fierce bunch of competitors. I think I was born with the map for design etched in my head. I can apply it to arranging a room, choreographing a dance, laying out a garden, angling a photograph, or assembling an outfit to wear. I constantly think in terms of design, color, texture and balance.
So this is my home these men are shuffling up. There are endless hours of decision making put into where exactly that chair should go, and as if it were a sneeze, they stack the carefully placed chair upside down over a box. I have to turn my back and leave. This disorder is too much for me. And the limbo I stand in as a homemaker of it all going into a truck to be unloaded into a new place gives me a sense of homelessness. I turn my eyes away from my gardens as if they betrayed, cheated, and lied to me. I had to either dig them all up and put them in the truck, or unfriend them, because there’s too much emotion attached between us and I am just not mature enough to part with them peacefully. Plants are alive, the color on the walls of my kitchen is not. My plants responded to my choices for them, and they truly loved me back when I tended their needs. Gardening was going to my personal church for me. I could slip on my gloves, pick up my tools and know I was going to not only talk to God, but listen and learn from Him while I cared for His creation, my playground, my sanctuary. I could spend eight hours working in the garden and never feel a minute pass. It is communion with the Great Creator, my Sovereign God.
Starting over … again. But first, there are these strange few days in between houses, neither of them really mine or me, that gives me a deep and profound gut feeling that I am a homeless homemaker.(even though for this brief period we pay two mortgages) I’m going to flee as fast and furiously as I can. I won’t be the person who closes the door here for the last time. I’m jumping over the emotional puddle so I can go straight into the transformation of a house into a home. And our house in San Antonio, it has more potential than any house I’ve ever considered giving the honor of the title: home. You can be sure I will share the transformation from house to home right here as I go. And it’s time to go. The movers are on their way here and I’m still in my bed.