Coming Home. Always special. No matter where or what you call home. For me, now, seeing my kids come home is more special than ever….as they each have their ‘own’ homes. But coming home to where you started is always special. It’s safe. Filled with unconditional love. And the warmth and security of your parents’ open arms…and full refrigerators. It stands staunchly. Waiting. Filled with memories of childhood….schooldays…and homecomings.
Jeff arrived this weekend with Ella and Jackson. DIL, Jackie, had to work, so they came without their beloved wife and mother. (we all missed her!) There were lots of hugs and kisses. Lots of laughter.
And at nite….this mom/grandma got great pleasure out of tiptoeing into their bedrooms, and standing silently. Watching. In awe that they are my child’s children. My bloodlines. Magnificent miracles. Soundly, peacefully sleeping. ‘Home’.
I used to tiptoe into the boys’ rooms quite often. From infancy on up….watching them sleep filled my soul with love. And yes….even to watch my grown son sprawled across the bed like he had been so many many times before throughout the years of his childhood, was magical. To watch him sleeping still takes my breath away. Praying, silently, that while he’s here…. ‘home’…that the pressures of his job, of being a father and husband to his young family…all those worries that come with adulthood…would slip magically away. At least while he’s sleeping. Here. ‘Home’.
Today, the house it still. The bedrooms empty. The silence could be described as hollow. But it’s really not. For echoing in these walls are memories of a joy-filled weekend with Jeff, Ella, Jackson, Tom and Amy. More memories to cherish. And to remember during the silences.
PostScript: The Mary Englebreit poster at the top of the page hangs near our backdoor. It’s one my my favorite of Mary’s works.
This post won an Honorable Mention for Post of the Day at Authorblog. Thank you, David!