Bare

As I drove into Morgan Hill this afternoon for a visit with my Mom, I was presented with a choice. Should I drive straight through to Morgan Hill? Or will I face the cold hard truth of the Gilroy house, knowing that it no longer belongs to our family?

I went back and forth for about a minute. Part of me wanted to leave my memories the way they were. Organized, warm and controlled. But there was another part, the piece that God want to bring complete healing to, that caused me to take that left turn.

I drove past Gilroy High School, and then Christmas Hill Park. My pulse quickened as I turned onto Westwood. Then a left, and we headed toward Third Street. The 20 or so miles per hour that I was driving seemed like light speed. Any pace would have felt too fast.

I inched past the Pavia's house on the left, Tonya's old house to follow - and then I saw it. Parked on the corner of Third and Santa Paula was the Gilroy house, just as it has always been. Same tree in the front yard, same color of paint. But strangely, that was all that felt familiar. Everything else looked so bare.

My Mom's car no longer graced the driveway. There were different cars parked in front. A ladder stood crookedly on the front porch, making the place look unfinished. Window coverings were drawn, which would have never ever happened with my family. The rose bushes in the front of the house - gone. The Starr Jasmine that so cheerfully welcomed any visitor was nowhere to be found.

My heart sunk. Everything beautiful about our home had sadly disappeared. I wonder if these new people understood that the sweet smell of jasmine had welcomed me home for over a quarter of a century. I doubt it was ever even considered.

As I drove away, sadness and resentment melted into excitement. (This is what the God of my heart does best. He will take a pile of ashes, and make them beautiful.) Of course, this new family was stripping away some of the extras, so that they could add some extras of their own. I'm sure they had their own ideas about what would make the place look homey. Rosebushes probably just weren't their thing, and that's okay. Heading towards Morgan Hill, I prayed a blessing over this new family, who had chipped away at my heart.

I felt a bit of displacement with a strange bit of reassurance mixed in. Driving away, like I had done so many times before, felt more permanent than ever. My Mom wasn't waving from the front porch. I had no promise of ever returning, in fact there was no chance of it. I felt content to say good-bye to the place I used to call home. No glance back this time, for I chose to keep the old memories in the forefront of my mind.

Driving up to my Mom's new place moments later, cemented everything together. God has taught me so much through this storm. Home is not an address. It is not a rosebush or even a memory of a rosebush. Home is where love resides. And amazingly, love is fluid, unpredictable and even at times really difficult to face.

This is what it means to be held . . . when the sacred is torn from your life, and you survive. The overwhelming redemption of the love of Christ, makes every glance back at the joy and the pain - worth it all.