Home Sweet Home

As I get ready to spend my last night in this home, I can’t help but be a little reflective. 

Three years ago, I moved to a little one bedroom apartment across the street from my school.  It was tiny and perfect and safe.  A bit of a cocoon.  When I fled there, it was a frantic escape.  No organization.  No planning but a sleepless night with a notepad and a pencil and a locked door.  And my fear.

That home came to be a place of healing.  The fear hung on for a while, but eventually it lessened.  The nightmares faded.  The panic attacks ceased.  The tears flowed frequently.  Hours of crocheting.  Hours of reading about the “A” word.  And healing.

By the time I got ready to move to Houston, things had changed.  I was looking forward to beginning a new job and a new life and living lakeside with valet trash.  This move wasn’t an escape; it was a rebirth.  A flight home.  And my freedom.

This home has come to be a place of learning.  I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past two years.  I’ve learned that I’m smarter than I thought.  That I can find my way around Houston.  That being a high school counselor is absolutely my calling.  That living near family is a precious gift.  That making mistakes is part of the journey.  That God still loves me.    

Tomorrow I’m moving three miles down the road to the tiniest apartment yet.  It is teeny, old, and completely unglamorous.  But I’m excited.  This move is purposeful; to save money for a house.  The boxes are packed and labeled. 

I feel like I should pack an empty one and label it “Hope”.