On Coming Home

Dear Homeowner,

You met me at the door of your home when we came to see it last week. I was a little bit early and you were dragging your heels, both of us wondering the same thing: could your home become mine?

I took the hand you offered and we clung to each other, smiling. I asked why you're moving and the light dropped from your eyes, for just a moment.

Your wife died, you said and you're planning to move far away, to be closer to your grandchildren.

I nodded, as though in approval of this life's plan that has nothing to do with me. Truthfully, I was nodding to try to keep the smile on my face because the look on yours broke my heart.



With a gentle, welcoming sweep of your arm, you ushered us into your home and simply disappeared out the back door. In the meantime, we tiptoed inside: marveled at the furniture, the photos, the fanciful, exotic sculptures and prints that filled your home: all of it proof of a well-travelled, well-read, well-lived life.

And the smell. Oh, the lovely, gorgeous smell of Europe - I breathed France in Fall into my lungs as I let my fingers trace the backs of your chairs, arranged just so in the main parlour. 

As I peered at the books lining your bookshelf, I was not surprised to see the Netherlands on their spines because suddenly, I could smell  coffee and my Dutch father's meatball offerings on a rainy November night.

Our real estate agent, himself the child of English parents grinned and nodded when I said this all aloud. He'd just been through the kitchen and said it looked like those he'd visited on a trip to his parents' homeland, many years ago.

On we moved, reverently now, from room to room, space to glorious space.

I felt my throat ache when I spied the banister leading to the second floor - heard my own children's laughter as I imagined - nay, saw - them sliding their way from top to bottom.

On the landing above I heard your children's laughter too and for a moment I stood utterly still, enchanted.

Such love lived here.

In every photo, of your children throughout the three decades you lived here, I saw it.

In every bedroom, I felt that time was standing still, holding the secrets and memories of those who slept there, dreamed there, loved there.

Love lives here still.

In the master bedroom, I saw your wife's funeral card and - forgive me - took it gently in my own hand. Felt a soft shift in the air around me, above me, beneath me. And I thought, "How he loves her."

And then I slipped back downstairs to the family room - the room that felt like the heart of the house, to me - and simply sat, gazing out the bay window. Imagined watching my own sons play in the shade of the porch, slam their way in through the grand front door only to tumble out the one at the back.

Tilted my head to the ceiling and watched my own dreams of a home filled with love and laughter and walls filled with memories play across the cracked plaster and wondered if your wife, Elizabeth, had done the same, 30 years ago?

Thank you for allowing me into your home, to dream awhile, to bask in the beauty you've created.

Know that whomever ends up buying your house is lucky in ways they might not even realize, now: that they are inheriting a space filled with grace and beauty and lives wondrously lived.

I can only hope that the next family who lives in mine - whenever that time comes - feels the same.

The Reds exploring another old house that captured their mama's heart.

Blessed be.

* * *

And you?

How did you choose the house you now call home?

What were the scents and sights that drew you in?

What would you say to the previous owners, if you could?

Growing Love

Two of my classmates are pregnant. One knows she's having a boy and the other doesn't know the sex of her baby. A few of us think she's having a boy though, so we're going with it until the babies are born in April and May, respectively.

While neither of these women had necessarily planned to become a mother just yet, both of them were born to be one.

I know this because I've watched them both blossom since we began our program in 2011. Over the months, I've seen them gain confident in their own voices, offering up wise and compassionate viewpoints during class discussions. They know love.

And, through our studies and our placements and their work, they also know what being unloved can do to a child, an adult, a group. I have listened to both women speak eloquently about the heartache they feel when they see cruelty and injustice being done to those they support.

My friends are quiet but fierce advocates for those who do not have the words to ask for what they need. They are ready and willing to protect those who are vulnerable, physically and emotionally. They are open to new ideas and willing to help someone else thrive and grow and live their best life.



Helping Hands

They know that while this work will require them to sacrifice their ego and their sanity, some days, it will also bring enormous joy. They also know that this work is an absolute privilege and that it will break and mend their hearts a thousand times, sometimes in the same moment. It takes patience and empathy and is the hardest, most amazing job they'll ever do, especially if they're doing it right.

As their classmate, I want them to know that, in my eyes, they are among the best of us - the class of 2013 - who will carry our lessons in our hearts and go out into the world armed with hope and dreams and a healthy dose of fear for all that we still don't know, cannot change, could never have imagined.

But as a mother, I have been aching to tell them other things, these two impossibly beautiful women.

I wanted to tell them about how they will find in themselves a love they never knew existed, the first time they hold their sons.

I wanted to tell them that even though they will think themselves utterly spent and beyond exhaustion, they will find a way to get up and do what needs to be done because of love.

But today, I realized that they know all of this already. Realized that their journey to become support workers to people with disabilities has prepared them for motherhood in a unique and awesome way:

As mothers-to-be, they carry their future under their hearts and are venturing into motherhood filled with hope and dreams and a healthy dose of fear for all that they don't know, cannot change, could never have imagined. They are growing love.

They already know that while motherhood requires us to sacrifice our ego and our self-absorption it also brings enormous joy. Being a mother is an absolute privilege and it will break and mend their hearts and thousand times, sometimes in the same moment. It takes patience and empathy and is the hardest, most amazing job they'll ever do, especially if they're doing it right.

As mothers, I know that they will be fierce advocates when their sons do not have the words for what they need. They will readily and willingly protect their boys' hearts, bodies, souls and will happily do what needs to be done to help their babies thrive and grow and live their best lives.


Two of my classmates are pregnant.

Their love is going to change the world.