It's hard to believe but this little feller turned one year old today. Check out those walking skills. Or I should say those high-knee, stomping skills.
Happy Birthday, baby Izamac. By the time you're old enough to read this, I'll probably be dead or something so your folks will just have to pass that along.
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So I've come to realize that when you sell your house and get prepared to move, excitement quickly gives way to exhaustion. There aren't enough hours in the day, or days on the calendar.
I am currently trying to get the place in shape for the home inspection on Thursday. The aggravating part of this is that the inspection is the buyer's prerogative. It does me no good whatsoever. Just something to tolerate until closing. So, essentially I have to stay up late and bust my rumpus to clean around all the stuff that will be gone in a few weeks. Sheesh!
The house is a wreck, anyway. Looks like a category 4 hurricane came through. I just started a new jigsaw puzzle, too. That means my dining room table has 1,500 little pieces scattered about on it, pieces that I will have to pick up and re-box until I'm quaintly settled in at the new place. The puzzle does, however, do a fabulous job of camouflaging burned spots that may have "developed" on said table.
Then there are the six new books on my coffee table. If I simply shelf them until I'm moved, I chance forgetting about them, something that would be truly tragic. So I will have to either read very fast or dedicate to them their own box at move time. We'll go with option B.
I don't have alot of stuff. But right now my stuff seems to be replicating. Who in the world needs 11 Bibles? I use them for cross-referencing and such, but today I stopped and looked at them and felt like some collector or something. That's it, I collect God's Word, because I'm so super spiritual and righteous and stuff. (that's sarcasm, y'all). I feel like I have my own little Vatican archives.
As I pondered the impending move, I wondered if I should feel any sentiment or sadness about leaving. I've heard people talk about that, how they were leaving memories behind and all the good times in their home. Oddly, though, I don't really feel that way.
I've been here almost 10 years. It will always be my first owned home. At times it's been a sanctuary, other times a prison. The memories run the gamut from treasured to, "Please, God, make me forget." I've had joyous, unforgettable Christmases and torturously lonely ones, too. I've laughed my head off and cried my eyes out. I've fallen on my knees in my room in awe of God and paced the floors screaming out to Him at the top of my lungs. I've had some special times that I'll never forget with people who have changed my life.
But, even after all that, I don't feel overly attached to the house. Maybe because it's always been an incomplete home. It holds my belongings and my personality (Shaker, according to Sarah), but just me, no one else to jazz it up. It's kinda like being stuck in your own head all the time (if your head contains furniture and carries insurance).
What I mean is it's kinda like a church building. the building itself is warm and inviting, but all the good things that go on and all the memories and special times there are due to the inhabitants. God doesn't live there. He lives in the hearts of the members, all those who serve there, pray there, cry there, get hitched there and are buried there.
So it is with me and my little chunk of dirt here. It's been a blessing and God has always provided the means for me to keep it paid for and in good repair. But all the awesome times and memories, all the love and joy, all the heartache and times of brokenness and growth will not stay behind. They aren't contained in the four walls of a house. They will move with me. They are safe and secure in my aging mind and tiny, cold heart.
So I'm ready!!! Let's get to movin'.
