When he contemplated the transition to a time of ministry, my world shifted a bit.  I would not grow old in this farmhouse that had housed my family while they grew.  After the initial realization that we would be moving to places unknown, it was actually not so hard to let go.

Home is really family – and to some degree – my stuff.  Some moves have been exciting – a bigger, newer home, or even a transition to a new state.  One move was more stressful than the others.  We were leaving home and friends far away, knowing no one in this new place, living in a small rental home that needed some cleaning and painting, and four small ones to keep occupied within its walls – while a husband worked in a very stressful new job.

When we moved to the farmhouse, it felt permanent – but it was not.  (photo above from a recent trip down memory lane – in its present state of “decay”)

But I have been blessed in that each move has been the result of a choice, and with an intact family.  When we left the farmhouse to enter a parsonage – it was not “my” home, but it was.  The people in it were my family and my family is home.

This last home has grown quiet and feels a bit empty with daughters and niece no longer there.  It has emptied out to just two – and although it seems to have trouble with maintaining that number, this time it just may last.

A house is a house – a family is home.