Today is all about a story.
My favorite kind of tale.
You know.
The one where you think you know where the plot line is going and you have an idea of the ending and suddenly in the middle there’s a twist that you didn’t imagine and the ending kind of gets re-written and it ends up even better than you thought.
Kind of like a Christmas miracle and a Hallmark movie all rolled into one.
Life is funny like that.
You think you know the script.
You think you know the ending.
And then?
A handmade Christmas gift shows up that changes everything.
This is the home of my childhood.
This is where I grew up.
I have walked up these brick steps more times than I can even count.
This is what the house looked like the day we bought it back from the family that my mother had sold it to after my father passed away. You can read all about moving and my wedding dress and Dear Abby and a mirror here.
This is the house where my future husband who wasn’t even my boyfriend yet picked me up for our first date.
This is the house where he first kissed me goodnight.
This is the house where I brought my children home from the hospital.
This is the house where my children stamped their tiny hand prints in the driveway when my mother and father had a new driveway poured.
This is the house where we all gathered to celebrate my father’s life and legacy after he passed away.
This is the house where I’ve laughed and cried and loved and giggled and shared more joy than a person should be allowed in a lifetime.
This is my home.
There was a time when I thought this home was lost forever. I thought I’d never walk the halls again. I thought I’d never celebrate another Christmas or Thanksgiving or birthday or family breakfast here.
Until.
Until one day we were planning to move back home to Texas and I randomly called up the new family that owned the house and asked them if they would sell it back to us. I called them on a whim. I had no idea what they’d say. I had no idea if they’d even answer the phone.
The house wasn’t even on the market.
The family didn’t really know me and as far as I knew they weren’t planning on selling it.
But I stepped out on faith and dialed the phone.
When the current owner answered, I explained who I was and told her my story and told her we might be moving back and that I had been in a relationship with that house since add-a-bead necklaces and stirrup pants were a thing. Would she? Could she? Might she be interested in selling it?
And to my surprise.
To my joy.
To my almost fainting on the phone at that moment….
….she said yes.
It’s been over seven years since we moved back into the house and there have been dozens of changes–new paint colors, new kitchen, new bathrooms, new laundry room, new air conditioners, new hot water heater, new electrical and plumbing, and a new roof.
But one thing hasn’t changed.
The heart and soul of this house still beats so strongly throughout our family.
And so?
It deserves its own moment in the sun.
On Christmas morning my brother gave me this all wrapped up with ribbons and a bow. This was his handmade gift this year.
It’s a drawing of this house.
Our house.
The one where the very floorboards I’m standing on have seen all the milestones and stories and celebrations.
He made the drawing.
And then because he’s my brother and he is the best carpenter and woodworker that I know?
He made the frame, too.
I took it and hung it up on the wall heading into the laundry room and now it has its own place of honor in this house.
The house I love.
The house I grew up in.
The house I came back to.
I still can’t believe it I am lucky enough to be the keeper of the chapters of this house.
It is an honor and a privilege I don’t take lightly.
Truly.
And now there’s a picture hanging in the back corner next to the laundry room that reminds me of one of my favorite sayings by that wise sage, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.
There’s no place like home.
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