Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.