Friday, June 21, 2013

The Hated

I remember moving from the first home I had a memory of in Pipersville, PA. It was all rather exciting, all the help from friends. They all came over and we had a big picnic with hoagies from the Cherry Top for everyone, and my grandparents and cousins were there.....and I didn't really understand why.

I was 8 years old, and it was 1989. I know, because all the boxes still in my parents' attic say, "1989" on them.

Then we all slept in sleeping bags on the floor that night. I was terrified. I couldn't say exactly why....maybe it began with seeing images of "War of The Worlds" accidentally on TV during the hustle and bustle and attempts to keep the kids out of the parents' hair. Michael had grabbed the remote, I remember, and wanted to find something "not boring." Greg settled on "War of the Worlds" and assured everyone it was Good Watching. I watched in horror as a woman got her leg brutally wrenched off at the knee by a mysterious alien hand shooting out from under a table. Grandmom rushed in, took control of the remote, and assured everyone it "was just ketchup! Just KETCHUP!" that was squirting everywhere on screen.

Then I was ushered home by my parents to the empty, dark, unfamiliar place that had been my first home, where we were all told we were going to sleep on the floor in sleeping bags. I was scared. Paralyzed with fear. I could not sleep. My home was unrecognizeable with empty corners and boxes everywhere, and I was sure there were aliens lurking around every corner ready to rip my legs off if I left their presence. I prayed something I remembered hearing in church or on a movie or something. It was the most powerful thing I could think of. "Please put a ring of Your blood around this house for protection!"

The next morning, everything was tucked away into the van and large U-Haul. We got in the car, and went the other way on highway 611---not towards Town, so I knew something was up. Then it all made sense. I looked back with crushing sadness at our Home. My Home. I saw the trees I had climbed since I was a dear trees. They were waving to me. "Mom! Look! They're waving Goodbye to us!"

I wept 8 year old tears.

I'm 32, now. I have moved 12 times since then. Two of those moves I did alone, with small children. Once while still breastfeeding. Every time I move, I grieve this way. I feel the coldness creep over my home, as it dies slowly with each box packed. I ache as I wrap up the memories of bedtime stories in front of this window...mornings with husband watching the sunrise over the lake through another window. Walls that friends painted. Cabinet doors made dingy by chubby baby Forshey hands.  I grieve over the friendship with the neighbor boy that will be lost within a month. I wince through goodbyes, pretending I'll be seeing everyone again next weekend.

I long with a keen, irrepressible longing for the Home that we will never leave. I know, without a fragment of doubt, that I was made for a Particular Home with a Particular Family...and that it will come to pass one is written on my heart.

Lord, haste the day!

1 comment:

  1. I remember packing you once. So grateful I could share one of the moves with you. Of course, we couldn't talk about It like this, and I didn't know anyway...but I'm still glad. That was a beautiful experience to have together with you.

    <3 <3