The House That Built Me

Welcome back!

Post #2! And it's a heavy one. More like a sappy one.

As I discussed in my last post, my parents are moving. Moving day is this Saturday. What a whirlwind this whole process has been. I tend to be somewhat of a sentimental person. I have to train myself to turn off the emotional attachment when it's time to throw away that ratted out stuffed animal or Barbie doll from my childhood, or else I'll end up on the show Hoarding: Buried Alive. 

So, when it comes to saying goodbye to the house I spent my entire adolescence in, and then some, (10 years to be exact) it's hard for me. I had to do this with my childhood house. Same story, I lived there 10 years from 2 years old to 12 years old. All my childhood memories were made in that house and I loved that home. But, we moved, I coped, and I grew to love this current home that we're about to leave.

If sentimental and emotional basketcase had a baby, that would describe my state this week. I can't even begin to think about what my feelings will be like on Saturday. Stay tuned to find out!

In order to help me deal, this post is being dedicated to my house.

If you will look to the right side of the blog, you will find my new mixpod! It will be my permanent playlist via blog! To go along with today's post, I've added 2 songs. The first, is a song by Miranda Lambert entitled The House That Built Me. This song is my inspiration for this post. Go ahead and push play on that baby. When I first heard this song, it was love at first hear. It's like my anthem during this whole moving process.  It's so well written so do yourself a favor and listen to it.

You know, leaving the house isn't the hardest part of this whole ordeal. It's the fact that it will now belong to someone else. (The family buying the house are great people, so that helps.) Because I am so sentimental, I would occasionally drive by my old childhood house and it never made me feel better. It made me feel worse. That was our basketball goal that dad put in himself with our handprints in the concrete. I sharpied my name on the brick (discretely) just to leave my mark. That was our gigantic shed that my dad built from scratch and was dubbed by the neighborhood as the "Taj MaShed", because it was a tad overbuilt. So many Easter morning pictures in the front yard of us kids dressed in ridiculous outfits.

When I drive by our house now long after we've moved, I'll find new things to reminisce about. Like how the late Jazz Xepoleas (our black lab) roamed and frolicked the backyard for nearly the entire time we lived there. Or how our pool in the backyard was the center of our Summer Sundays. And how we hosted countless parties and hangouts there. Or the patched hole in the ceiling of the garage from when I was in the attic and my leg fell through. I could go on and on.

I don't mean to sound like a Debbie Downer, but if you've ever left the home you grew up in, or driven by your old house, I'm sure you can relate. Or maybe I'm just a weirdo attached to a house. Or two.

So I conclude...

While this post is littered with sentiment and memories, it is a comfort to know I don't have to leave those memories behind. Memories are what made both houses what they are to me.  

I'm thankful that the Lord has blessed my family with homes and a memory to remember them.

If you're reading this, I thank you for sticking it out and reading my sappy post.

I'll leave you with a picture of the beloved house.

"For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."  2 Corinthians 5:1

-caris