MOVING OUT of our little home in Belmont Shore and my heart’s been broken since we first heard the news.
If it sounds dramatic, let me start by saying that this is the spot we thought we’d be in for the rest of our lives.
The circumstances are sudden and unfair and many other things I can’t bear to explain right now, so instead I’ll tell you how odd it feels to be grieving an inanimate object… Allow me to introduce you to our sweet little casa?
She’s a tiny bungalow by the beach with a BIG heart at her core.
Floors that creak with personality + windows that glow when the sun streams through their (drafty, single-paned) 90 yr old glass.
Sunbaked stucco and Saltillo tile and planters filled with seashells from the ocean down the street. This little casa never believed in insulation and she still scoffs at the thought of central heat or AC.
Built-in shelves around every corner and nooks that hold our treasures that have come from near and far… noticing how they’re arranged is now confirming my hunch:
She must have known our adventures were ready for a safe place to land.
Imagining her walls naked and stripping the floors bare — my face flushes at the shame of packing it all away. Our furniture happens to bring out her best features and when I picture the rooms suddenly empty, it’s like a secret betrayal of the most gut-wrenching kind.
Right now, I’m staring out the (always open) front door which has framed an impressive amount of Hellos and Goodbyes. Our stoop has always bustled with bear-hugs, and yet… I can’t seem to figure out how to wrap my own arms around the house that will always hold a little piece of our hearts.
Truthfully, she’s more like a friend than just a physical space where we keep our stuff or go to sleep at night.
We’ve spent nearly 4 years under this familiar roof: cooking + creating, hosting parties + prayer nights. Podcasting at the dining table and pouring drinks on the patio. Welcoming everyone from foster kiddos to family to long-distance friends – this home has become a part of us and it’s tough to envision what our lives will look like without her.
I am thankfully (miraculously?) not worried about where we’ll end up next because the God who cares for me is a generous one indeed.
We’re trusting that it could perhaps be something even better, but thinking about it now takes a massive suspension of disbelief.
Reality check? I’m still sad despite our hopeful outlook… I’ve cried more times the past few weeks than my entire quota for 2019, but the grief is teaching me that tears work better when they’re given a distinct task.*
Those salty droplets are currently very busy, as I’m sure you can imagine: releasing, cleansing, healing and most importantly— adding a reflective glint that might not have been quite visible before.
Most of all, I’ve learned it’s ok for faithful anticipation and deep sadness to live under the same roof for a bit.
The pair might seem like unexpected roommates at first, but together they’ve brought gifts like empathy, self-awareness and a deep understanding of what it’s like to have love in your heart that’s as big as a house.
We miss you already, Little Casa. Please don’t forget our tiny family of 3 and I hope your new dweller doesn’t mind if I swing by to steal a bougainvillea branch and hug the neighbors every once in a while. 💕
*Turns out buckets also catch tears just as well as they catch rain from inside the roof of a leaky garage.