In the past eight years, I’ve lived in seven different apartments in five different cities. Each time I moved, I squirreled away my stash of moving boxes. I stuffed them under the bed, used valuable closet real estate, hid them behind the washing machine. You see, if there’s one thing I hate more than moving, it’s finding moving boxes. Once I found good ones, I didn’t want to let them go, because I always knew the next move was imminent.
For four years of college, I moved every year. Then Tony and I moved to North Carolina — another temporary home that we planned to leave as soon as Tony graduated. When we came back to Indiana, we spent a year in flux. Two weeks in Europe, six weeks at Tony’s parents’ house while he searched for a job, six months in an apartment in northern Indiana where he accepted a temporary teaching job, and now almost four months in an apartment here in southern Indiana after he accepted his full-time position.
I’ve struggled to make connections with people, knowing we’d be moving on soon. I never really felt settled. And through it all, I hung on to those moving boxes, because I knew I’d need them again soon.
After all that, I can’t tell you how good it felt to sign on the dotted line today finally securing our permanent home. Will we live here for the rest of our lives? Probably not. But we’ll be here for the foreseeable future, nestled in our adorable brick ranch on an acre of peaceful land in the country.
We’ll roast turkeys at Thanksgiving and trim Christmas trees in December, grill hot dogs on the back porch and roast marshmallows at backyard bonfires in the summertime. We’ll celebrate Judah’s birthdays, sign him up for Little League, and send him off to kindergarten. Hopefully we’ll find a community that we can call our own. And I’ll finally send my pile of moving boxes to the recycling center.
We are home. Finally.