manna, cont’d.

I find a strange rest in running.  Some of you might be able to identify with that, while others of you are convinced I just boarded the crazy train.  It’s not a physical rest, obviously, but a mental one.  The moments in which my body and brain take a simultaneous break are rare, so mental rest often demands a payment of much huffing and puffing…and pretending I’m good at running.

A few months ago, I was out struggling – I mean, running, I was out running – and the beauty of my surroundings reminded me of the manna I’ve spoken about before.  Nature was all around me, in song to something way bigger than itself.  Have you ever paid close attention to how things grow in the wild?  The plants all seem to know how to work together to have their own place, even if inextricably mixed together.  I’m lost for eloquent words to describe how it makes me feel, but it really is a beautiful thing to behold.  It’s like a dish with many ingredients mixed together.  Not every bite has every ingredient, and any number of flavor combinations could happen with any given spoonful, but the whole of it is pleasurable in taste.  This path beside a lake and through the woods is full of color and texture and light.  Even weeds and vines are beautiful there.  Is it that the wilderness, in its unintentional, overgrown, tangled beauty somehow reflects my heart?  Is that why my soul feels full of breath and life when I’m in the middle of it?

I thought about creation, and the privilege we have to even look at something that resembles God.  I thought about sitting on my deck in perfect weather, and how God must feel something like that.  I thought about ocean water at heart-level, and how big God is, and how I’m completely swallowed up in something so grand.  I thought about my children, and how they are image bearers of God, and what luck I have to see Him reflected in them.

I remembered a time I was lying in bed, awake, probably taking a few minutes to rest my weary bones.  I pictured my daughter standing at the foot of the bed.  I don’t remember our conversation, but I remember how beautiful she was to me in that moment.  Her head was tilted slightly, making her sweet face somehow look sweeter.  Her hair was hanging down the side of her face, like sheer curtain panels, just letting her eyes be revealed.  It rested on her shoulders, in tousles of gold.  In this unassuming moment, I beheld a part of the King.  She’s beautiful like He is, she is sweet like He is, her hair moves like He moves, she is a refuge like He is.  She was fearfully and wonderfully made, and I get to experience that on a daily basis.  What grace, what manna.

These things I’m lucky to have – nature, my wife, my son, my daughter, music, dance, art, and on and on – aren’t happenstance; they are God on display in this fallen world.  Daily bread – manna – is actually Himself.  How gracious is He to allow us to know even a part of Him?  Even the most amazing wonder of creation that we can fathom is merely a foretaste.  I consider myself blessed to see a shadow of what’s to come; it keeps me seeking.

What’s mind-blowing about this daily bread is that it is what is meant to sustain us.  Fortunately, it is made up of the most beautiful things we could imagine.  Of course the challenge is to remember this sustenance in seasons of drought or famine.  When fear comes to knock, the answer is manna.  When doubt calls our name, our response is manna.  When sadness threatens to drown, our life jacket is manna.  When turmoil comes to battle, our shield is manna.  When need exists, our fill is manna.

In honesty, most of the time I fail to remember this; these sustaining truths slip my mind in the middle of hard times.  But, if I were face to face with the person of Jesus, and He were to ask me “what do you need?”  In light of how lavishly the Lord has given of Himself to me in daily bread, the only answer I could possibly muster is “what I already have”.




In the chasm between wakefulness and sleep, I often find myself stirring with thoughts that don’t always feel like my own.  Last night I managed to have bouts of full consciousness to write them down.  Given this context, forgive me if none of this short stanza makes any sense.  And yes, some of these words are pulled directly from the Bible. 
Your mercies, they hold me between hems.

Canons of color and sound are the stitches that keep straight the path, 

and though my soul errs to drift, my feet are set with the new dawn –

O, that I would be sure-footed as the deer on the mountainside.

Even at night, Your word is pure, and leads me in the way everlasting.

Narrow is the way to You –

were it wide, would I ever wander.

Take a Bite < Take, and Eat.

I have a food problem.

We have a love/hate relationship, food and I.  Something so fundamentally functional doubles as the arsenal in a battle waged against my emotions.  Identity, success and failure, “good” and “bad” hinges upon simple acts like hand-to-mouth, and mouth-to-stomach.  The very thing that could “win” the battle is what brings my defeat.

I don’t think the fall of mankind was arbitrarily brought on by eating.  Don’t you feel like food goes into the deepest part of you?  Like the bottom of your stomach is the closest thing to the emotions that feel inseparable from yourself?  “Go ahead, Eve, take a bite.”  She was tempted with the lie that she and Adam would become like God.  They believed the lie and ate, and the power button on the idol factories that are our hearts was pressed by the forbidden fruit.  Not ironically, as deep as food seems to go into the depths of me, so does idolatry.

It’s as if the Almighty knew that gluttony and the idolization of food would be the widespread (though under recognized) problem that it is for humanity.  In varying degrees, in varying seasons, most of us (if not all) have relived our first bite of sin.  Don’t we try to self-deify in the moments we emotionally eat, Adam, as if we have the power to fix the mess on our insides?  Don’t we think that we can become omniscient by our own volition, Eve, like we know how to answer our innermost call out to our Creator?  Further, we desperately try to employ the very thing we idolize to fill the void left by the idolization thereof.  Food, the forbidden fruit, will always yield a void.  We tithe to ourselves with food, and we take and take and take, and always end up empty.

This is a picture of what I desire: satisfaction, arousal of the senses, something good, an experience, something emotional, pleasurable, comforting – but it is never enough.  There is a never-ending craving for more and more and more; more of the stuff that isn’t designed to truly fill.  “I’m eating my emotions”, we say.  No, we are eating our death.


Man does not live by bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of Adonai.

“This is my body,” He said, “broken for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”  The broken body: the one that bore the cross and the wrath of God, that was pierced for our transgressions, that was bruised for our iniquities, that rose again, that is seated at the right hand of God, that came that we might have life and have it abundantly, that made us new creations, that gives beauty for ashes, that tramples over death by death, that has chosen us that we might bear fruit, that died in our place.

“This is my body, broken for you.”  Take, and EAT.  Eat and be satisfied.  Be filled in every way with the fulness of God.  Indulge in a new kind of “full”.  Take in the grace and truth and light offered to you.  Let it go down to your inmost parts, and be true substance and sustenance.  Take and take and take the Bread of Life, and be filled.

Take in the power that defeated the grave.  Take in the Name that makes the enemy flee.  Take in the grace that sets us free.  Take in the love that sacrificed.  Take in the rest for the weary and heavy-laden.  Take in the hope that promises salvation.  Take in the mercy that is new every morning.  Take in the blood that leaves no stain.  Take in the body that brings us to righteousness.

Take.  Take.  Take, and eat.

With a bite we found our death, and with a bite we are given life.
*please know that I write this with sensitivity toward those diagnosed with eating disorders 


Word of the Year 2016

This might cause you to think that some of my screws have come loose, but I’m way beyond the point of caring about seeming crazy.  Do me a favor, though.  Read all the way through.  🙂


In December of 2015, I had the pleasure of sitting with a dear friend at a wedding reception.  While we were waiting for the wedding party to arrive to the reception site, we spoke in the manner that our conversations usually assume: the “get in there, share life, talk it out” kind of manner.  She told me about one of her colleagues who receives a “word of the year” from God, and that she had taken his advice to listen for her own.  She proceeded to tell me about her experience and encouraged me to ask God for my own.

That night when I laid my head down to rest, I decided to give it a go.  So I’m lying in bed and start chattin’ up the Almighty like “yo, dude, let’s make this happen.  2016 word of the year, lay it on me” and – BOOM – outta nowhere: “perseverance”.

Can we talk about the still small voice for a second?  It’s one of those things that, if you forget about it, startles you upon its return.  I can hardly fathom a whispered word from a God that literally cannot be exaggerated, but it’s exactly what I got.  Immediately I thought to myself “Uh…ok.  Well I’m just gonna wait it out in case that wasn’t it.”  It makes sense that I’d doubt it for a second, because an almost audible word spoken by neither of the two people in the room isn’t something that my flesh usually indulges without a second thought.

I awoke the next morning all excited.  I was thinking “Man I’m gonna be awesome by the end of 2016.  Perseverance?!  I’m gonna be able to handle anything that comes my way.  And not just “handle”, but destroy because I’m gonna be all steadfast and stuff.”


Let me tell you what perseverance really is.  (Hint: it’s not something to make you more awesome.)

Perseverance is a warning.  If you’re going to have to persevere, it AUTOMATICALLY means that things aren’t going to go the way you want them to.  Persevere defined is “to continue in a course of action even in the face of difficulty or with little or no prospect of success.”  The word itself should’ve signaled an urge to gear up for what would inevitably be a tough year.  I did not see the warning, and I was not ready for what was to come for the duration of 2016.  I should also say, I think “perseverance” carries a positive connotation.  Sure, the implications can be negative, but perseverance is a positive response thereto.

Perseverance is simplicity.  About 8 months ago, my wife and I got rid of 1/3-1/2 of our crap and moved into a house that is 600 sq ft less than the one we left.  It’s been one of the best decisions we’ve made in a long time.  Our daily lives are so much simpler, and the kids are very happy in our current situation.  Our lack of crap and a smaller house has been great in and of itself, but that theme has spilled over into other areas of our lives.  Our theme is simplicity.  It’s been a blessing during this season of perseverance, because so much of the distraction that all the extra usually brings is out of my mind.  It’s certainly full of normal life things, but all the other garbage isn’t taking up the extra mental space I need for pushing through one day to the next.  It’s also the simple act of living each day, each day.

Perseverance is mundane.  I had this notion that I’d be peaking regularly through 2016; that I’d have victory after victory.  It’s not so.  That’s just not how it works.  It’s an incredibly monotonous, daily drift: to wake up with the single goal of putting one foot in front of the other.  There’d be spurts of seeming joy, followed by ten times as much anguish, which ultimately led to stoicism.  I learned that being stoic isn’t the most ideal way to live, but it was the only option I had for success at taking one step at a time.

Perseverance is to look directly in front of oneself.  This one is twofold.  First, if I looked directly in front of myself, I could get a grip on what I needed to do to drift through the current day to the next.  “Make it to work” or “make it to the gym” or “make it to nap time” or “make it to bed”…thinking too broadly doesn’t serve most of us well when in the middle of trials, because it scatters everything on “the list” (ugh, the list – I hate the list) into a widespread mess that is too hard for us to keep together – simplicity, remember?  Second: when I look directly in front of me, I see the things that give me life: my wife, my kids, my house, my couch, my dog, my kitchen, my open curtains to the sunlight…  When I’ve made it to the rocking chair to rest my body and mind, these things and more serve as a reminder to keep going.

Perseverance is trusting your loved ones.  My wife, who walked with me in 2016, was a constant support and helpmate.  In my most vulnerable year ever, I had to trust her with every burden, and she didn’t waiver in that support.  (By the way, THIS is what it looks like when a wife “serves her husband”.  I am forever grateful, and hope to reciprocate the same service in the same manner when needed.)  I placed a similar trust in some family members and friends as well.

Perseverance is hanging on by a thread.  It’s knowing that this day will end, and I will wake up tomorrow.  It’s trusting that the thread will not break, and that if I hold on for JUST a little bit longer, I’ll make it to solid ground.

Perseverance is reaching your hands heavenward and saying “Jesus, this is me clutching the hem of Your garment.  Give me something.”

Perseverance is deep, calming breaths at 3 AM that lull you back to sleep.

Perseverance is living second by second if necessary; closing your eyes and knowing that right here, right now, everything is okay.

Perseverance is letting the tears flow, when weeping is might seem like the only hope you have for numbing the pain that brokenness brings.

Perseverance is, to paraphrase Watchman Nee, to keep my hand on the plow while wiping away those tears.


Perseverance, I believe, is a promise.  2016 was the “year of undoing” for me.  Or maybe it was more like deconstruction.  Actually, you know what?  On third thought, it was probably the year of destruction.  [Not to worry, though.  I’m okay.  My family is okay.  We are not in any danger.]  I had a dream recently about a giant statue falling to the ground, leaving a crumbled mess of broken stone.  That’s me after 2016.  It would be impossible for me to forget this year, because the struggles I was up against were the hardest I’ve endured.  (Also, I’m not going to tell you what they were, so don’t ask.  I love you.)  Yet, the stone that’s now lying in a mess all around me is a hint of a hope to come.  Once everything is a mess, the only thing to do is rebuild…restore.  I cannot believe that all of this perseverance was for naught.  There has to be something at the end of it, even if that thing is seeing the fruit of what I suspect will have been the most shaping year of my life thus far as well.

So, onward.  Though I could possibly find an answer one day for all the struggle, the perseverance won’t stop now.  It was merely being developed over 2016 (though maybe not quite so “mere”.  Perseverance wouldn’t be necessary if things weren’t dire.)  I’m going to keep persevering to the restoration.  And I have good reason to…

In December 2016, on the EXACT date I received my word in 2015, a new word was spoken  to me (audibly – it’s the craziest thing) for 2017:


The promise is real.  So now I will persevere to rest; to find where rest is and what rest means.

Rest is, after all, where restoration begins.

[for bracelets like the one pictured, visit mudLOVE]


To be completely honest, I’m not sure why I wrote this, especially since I’ve chosen to keep my circumstances concealed, other than for the hope that maybe it’ll help someone who feels like they’re in the throes of hardship.  Also, if you can resonate with anything I’ve said, please let me know; kinship can be a huge relief for the struggling.  Try to listen for your word, too, and if you have one, tell me what it is!  Let’s talk about it!


I see you.  I know – I KNOW – it feels like you’re on an island while you’re stumbling your way through a life you never thought could be this hard, but I see you.  You’re not alone, and I’m there with you. 

Being an adult is the actual worst.  My life is not my own, and burden of sacrifice that’s been bestowed on me is far more difficult to bear than I could’ve imagined.  Wouldn’t you agree?  Work, family, and the never ending task of balancing the two takes almost 100% of ourselves, and most of the time the things that give us life are not a part of this equation.  When we have no choice but to put our heads down and pull the cart, we can’t see the things (often right in front of us) that fill us.  

I began to realize this about a year ago, and with many successes and failures between then and now, I started noticing small things – little gifts – daily bread – manna, if you will – that enrich my life.  Sometimes, if I pay close enough attention, I see that they surround me.  They’re constant, and many times are things I take for granted, to sound cliché.  

These are part of the manna in my life:

– a full moon, low on the horizon

– climbing into a bed of clean sheets 

– the first sip of wine, from a bottle that’s just been opened

– a rare few moments of being the only one in the house who’s awake in the morning

– the scent of a gardenia

– the way my daughter’s hair hangs at the side of her face and rests on her shoulders 

– standing chest-deep in the ocean

– showering with the window open

– the sound of an overnight rain on the roof

– the gradual awakening that coffee brings

– hearing people sing in perfect harmony

– warm weather with low humidity

– my son’s belly laugh 

– the feeling I get after a good workout 

– natural light coming through my windows 

– watching someone who’s really good at something do that thing

– when trees finally show their leaves after the winter 

In these ways, I am rich, and my life is full.  Even when my circumstances seem impossible, my daily bread remains.  I’m blessed to be able to experience these small delights every day, and am coming to know that the small delights is what big joy is made of.

So I encourage you to keep your head down and press on, but keep your eyes open.  There are blessings all around you. 

Safe Place

Everything has been on your own terms from the time you were born two years ago today.  Thankfully you decided that being only three weeks early was enough to shake things up a bit.  You succeeded, by the way; we didn’t even bring a car seat to the hospital with us.  Clearly your mom and I weren’t prepared, even if you had been born on your due date, but you also didn’t give us enough time.  From start to finish, you were born in 1 hour and 44 minutes.  What a blessing for your mother, sweet girl.

You slept right after you came into the world.  I remember thinking how sweet it was that it took only a minute for you to fall asleep on your mommy, where you stayed for the longest time.  She couldn’t see your face because it was nuzzled under her chin, but she felt you, little girl, of that I’m sure.

I didn’t predict that this would be the theme of your life thus far.  I thought for sure you’d turn into a rascally tomboy for trying to keep up with your big brother.  It turns out, that even though you can certainly hold your own, you’re reserved, demure, and aware.  It’s beautiful.  You keep your cards close, you’re measured in action, and guarded with your affection.  There’s safety in you, for us and for yourself.

One of my sweetest memories is coming home from work to your 8 or 9 month old smiling, perfect circle of a face.  What a comfort you were, reaching to touch my face with a giggle.  You were a balm for my oft weary soul, and without any effort you absorbed the busyness inside of me.  In those short, healing moments, you gave me more security than an infant should be able to.

The intrinsic qualities you possess fill a hole in our family that I didn’t realize existed.  A few days after we brought you home from the hospital, I remember standing, overcome, as I watched your mom, your brother, and you (my better three quarters) live life in front of me.  I’m sure it was in part due to being slightly overwhelmed at having another life to take care of (and adding another arrow to my quiver), but it was then that I realized that your presence was special, because it brought new life and energy to something that had existed beautifully before.  The way you spin around and dance when music comes on, how you show affection to your stuffed animals and baby dolls, when you say “pretty” as mommy is looking in your armoire for the day’s outfit, how you call anyone in a dress or gown “princess”, how you touch your nose to ours when we ask “where’s your nose?”, how you’re sure to say “ni-night mommy” or “ni-night daddy” sometimes through tears of exhaustion during bedtime, the way you bring us book after book to read to you and the way you crawl on our laps to listen (for as much as I love it, I’d be fine with getting a small break from “Little White Rabbit”), your desire to be close to the ones you love, the joy you find in dainty things, the way you bring out a tender side of your spirited brother when he gives you a hug or tells you he loves you…all of that brings a treasured softness to our household.

And I hope you stay the way you are.  Of course I’ll love you just the same if you don’t, but I see a future for you as someone who many find refuge in: the same safety I find when you look into my eyes and smile.  And if you do become an older version of your current self, I hope you grow in the same security you’ve already found even at two years old.  One day you’ll hear a lie that the qualities that make you, you – the sweet, girly you – were imposed on you.  Don’t believe it.  You were fearfully and wonderfully knit together.  Your inner workings aren’t there by happenstance or persuasion; they’re there on purpose and for a purpose, and it blows my mind sometimes that you seem to already know that.  You’re a daily encouragement for me as I watch you live as the person you are, even if your freedom coincides with your comfort.  That’s okay, stay guarded.  While it may make it harder for things to find their way in, it also makes it harder for things to become lost.

It took a long time for your mom and me to decide on what your name would be.  Some might think it silly that we searched for something that had a certain feel, but we were sure of it once we found it.  As it turns out, you live up to it in feel and definition.  You are precious to me, and one of my biggest blessings.  So keep being you, because it’s beautiful, and because it makes me feel safe to be me.  I’m proud that I can find that kind of comfort from you, my daughter: my safe place, my refuge…my sweet, sweet Haven.

Happy 2nd birthday, sweet girl.

Processed with VSCOcam with m5 preset

Processed with VSCOcam with m5 preset

Where the Heart is

The sound of the garage door lifting open and the familiar smell of what was contained behind it hit me like a one-two nostalgic punch.  If you were to ask me what comes to mind when I think of home, the garage wouldn’t be it.  I was surprised at how readily my brain brought me back in time from the smell of the garage alone; back in time to some point in the 21 years I lived there.

My parents bought a house in the part of the state that my brothers and I now live in order to be closer to us and their grandchildren – well, maybe just their grandchildren 😉 – so my dad and I were back home to move more things to the new house.  It’d been a while since I’d been at home, so for a season, I’ve been in a mindset of looking and thinking forward to the new house.  I realized pretty quickly when I got there, that it’s been a long time since I looked back.

Dad was looking for something in the garage (the garage that has always looked like a mess to me, but apparently is organized chaos to him because he found what he was looking for), so I went in through the front door to get some things ready to put on the truck.  Sentiment made a fool of me, because for a half of a second I expected to be greeted by my black lab, Koda.  We lost him over 7 years ago.  Just in front of me was the old upright piano we got for next to nothing 10 or 11 years ago.  It reminded me of the Christmas that I got a keyboard that I used to fall asleep playing.  I practiced for hours trying to learn to play two hands together on that keyboard; that one was an upgrade from the Yamaha I tried my best to make music on (it only had 19 keys – or was it 28? – and only 2 could be played at a time).

The floor in the foyer is probably 20 years old, and I remember when it was put down (and the yellow carpet that was there before it).  I can still hear the sound my rollerblades made when I’d skate to the front door to go out and brave the hill of the driveway (which, by the way, is a minuscule decline, as it turns out).  I’d make my way through the threshold of the front door onto the porch, which has no rails, and squat as low as I could with my hands just behind me to catch myself the moment my feet rolled out in front of me.  I’d scoot down the brick stairs on my rear end (the same stairs I slapped the side of my face into once), then slowly stand up at the bottom and make my way down the sidewalk, with my headphones on, and my Disc Man in my fanny pack.  It doesn’t get more 90s than that.

The living room has a huge window that I didn’t appreciate as a youngster.  If you could’ve watched from the outside in through the years, you would’ve seen hours of Nintendo playing, instrument practice, and boyfriend/girlfriend hangouts.  You also would’ve seen one of my proudest moments: finally, after years of being picked on as the youngest by the middle child, I beat my brother at his own game.  He was messing with me in one manner or another, and I ended up sitting on the floor facing him standing before me.  In a split second I decided to grab both of his ankles and yank his feet out from under him.  He might not acknowledge such defeat (or remember, really).  If you look out the window to the front yard, you’ll see the tree that he swiftly cut behind as I was chasing him during a game of Marco Polo (not in the pool – I don’t know why that sounded like a good idea).  I was chasing him around the yard with my eyes closed, so naturally he led me to that tree and stood behind it and yelled “Polo!”, thus making it seem like I had a chance at catching him.  I lunged, hit the tree, then hit the ground.  That one gave me a pretty bad goose egg.  These are just the beginning of the stories that house holds.

I looked around the house and remembered very specific moments from each room.  My bed is still in what ended up as my own room.  I spent the majority of my life going to bed in the same spot, but now, 10 years after leaving, it seems like a lifetime ago.  Even now, I’m remembering a time I cried in my closet after having my lip busted by a bag of hard candy that one of the neighborhood kids had.  Each room has its own feeling and story; even each of the yards surrounding the house has its own feeling and story.  I was shaped in that house and in those yards and under the big oak tree (I won’t get into that right now – it’s one of the main identifiers of “home” to me), and now they’re becoming empty.

My Grandma moved into the basement apartment of my parents’ new house from the same city that I grew up in.  The day she moved, I helped on the unloading side.  I recognized most of what was in the trucks and on the trailer: it was every one of her belongings that had just come from her old apartment that she had been in for 20 years.  (She should really get a Tenant Lifetime Achievement Award or something.  Could you ask for a better tenant?)   A lot of the things that she brought with her had also been in the apartment she was living in down in Gainesville, Florida, the one she left to come to North Carolina.  I wonder how many times she’s left a home.

A day or two later, we all gathered in her new apartment for dinner (including all three of her children).  A lot had been unpacked by this time, so it felt like Grandma’s house already.  I saw reminders of my Grandpa in some of the things he made (and even a sock monkey that was made for him when he was in the hospital long ago), the potato lookalike that is actually a rock had made it, all of the binders that hold photos of all of our lives and journals of her travels were there on the bookshelf (she’s been to every state except Hawaii), the dining table I sat at a quarter of a century ago in Florida was set up…it was her home.  She seemed to already be comfortable.  She was making dinner and didn’t have to guess about anything.  She’s almost 93, so of course she knew how to make the meal she was making, but a new kitchen didn’t trouble her in the slightest.  I looked around and saw my aunt and uncles and parents talking at the table, my own children playing with toys I probably played with as a child (and chasing their cousins around), my Grandma beating an egg with such familiarity (she grew up on a farm, so she’s been doing that for at least 80 years)…life was happening, as comfortably in her new house as her previous one.  I can see her happiness to be here, and not because she has expressed to me a few times that she was eager to move.  So I guess the old adage is true.  I guess home really is where the heart is.  Grandma left a house to come to NC, and one to get where she was before that, and who knows how many others before that.  I’d be willing to bet that she figured this out a long time ago.

When Dad and I got back to the new house with the load, my uncle and oldest brother helped us get everything inside.  Slowly, the new house is filling up.  The new dining room is gigantic and is open to the family room.  The dining room table that once filled a kitchen now seems small in such a vast space.  The couch is apparently mammoth sized because it had to be taken apart to fit through the door, but it’s there now, too.  Even the kitchen utensils (some of which my mom has probably had my entire life – I guess if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.  Some of them are broke, so I may or may not be hinting at what part of your Christmas present will be, Mom) found their way there.   The house still looks like somebody’s moving in, and probably will for a while, but home is starting to take shape.

It’s kind of exciting to know that familiar things from my past get a new life.  Going “home” to a new house will be an adjustment, but I’ve become an expert at adjustment.  The day is approaching quickly that the old house won’t be a part of my life anymore.  When I finally faced this reality, it stung a little.  I moved out 10 years ago and proceeded in life thinking that no matter where I go, the house will always be there.  I was wrong about that, and it’s ok.  I love that house.  It’s a modest house, but I hold it dear and will miss it.  Who knows if I’ll have the chance to go back one more time before everything is moved out.  If not, it’ll be just fine, because even though we are leaving a house behind, we are bringing home with us.