I said goodbye yesterday. After 20+ years, my parents decided to “downsize” to a townhouse (in quotes because it’s more square footage than their single home). It’s much better suited to them—no outside upkeep, two master bedrooms so there will be a place for my grandmother to live with them when she is ready. But, it is strange to say goodbye to the place where I lived for my most formative years.

When they built the house back in the late 80s, we gathered as a family in the home under construction and prayed. I barely remember doing that to be honest. I wish I could remember it more clearly and remember specifically how I prayed. I’m sure I was a bit quiet, a little embarrassed to pray aloud with them and probably joked about it being cheesy or something.

Yesterday, my sisters and I made the journey “home” for the last time. We walked around the house, all taken apart now with most everything boxed up. We went through a few last remaining items Mom wasn’t sure what to do with: “Anybody want this before I junk it?” type of stuff. I took a bunch of pictures—should have done that before things were pretty much empty. I thought I had more time. We all drove over to the grounds of the new place (the Ellicott model with the alternate second floor) and checked that out again, only minutes from the house. Then, we gathered, just the 5 of us, and prayed again, 21 years later. We thanked God for His provision of that house in the first place, a house my parents never imagined they could buy. We thanked God for the memories He gave us there. We thanked God that when everything else in life changes, He is faithful and steadfast, unchanging. We prayed for the family moving in, that He would be Lord of their family as well. And, we prayed for the memories yet to be made in the new house and that the family would know that it wasn’t the walls that made that house a home, it was the family and the One who has held the family together through the years and will continue to do just that.

This was my bedroom. I spent a lot of time here—time snuggling with our dog Ziggy in bed, talking to all hours of the night on the phone to boyfriends, crying over heart break, reading in bed, fighting with my sisters, completing my college applications, dreaming of the future. My 150 year old double brass bed (which had been moved to another room years ago) made the cut and will be one of the few pieces that will be at the new place. I’m glad.

This was the bathroom I shared with my sisters—I spent an embarrassing number of hours in here prepping for school; creating big bangs; and curling eyelashes and such to get ready for homecoming dances, proms, and eventually our wedding.

This is the garage door opener. I wonder the number of people who knew the code to get in here. Our house always had folks in and out. It must be hundreds that know the code (Note to new owners—may want to change this next week).

This is the original 5—now totaling 15 (16 once we have Lydia)—on the front steps, the same steps where we took pictures before every dance with our dates. The railing was added later. And, the shrubs are much much bigger.

And, this (drumroll, please) is the site of what will be the new family center. It should be finished in February and look just like the one below. It’s a great house—has 4 ½ bathrooms, a screened-in porch, and a cool basement with a big tv in the plan. The kids will love it there, I’m sure. And, okay, fine, I guess I will too.

We gathered our wedding gowns and walked out for the last time with a sigh. After a nice meal together, I headed home, my home, the home where my roots now are, the home my children will grow up in. Though I know I can’t hold onto that too tightly, there is something very warming about that. I realized that as much as I loved my parents’ house, it was just that, their house. We have our own home now, a home we gathered in as well on moving day and prayed over with our family and friends 6 years ago. And, one day (as much as I hate to admit it), my children will have their own homes. It’s very humbling to consider. And, all the while, He remains the same, faithful from generation to generation.

What 33-year-old woman wouldn’t love a Spiderman birthday party?

11 years — can’t believe it.