Ever since my parents sold my childhood home and moved to Jordan, I haven't really had a place I've felt comfortable calling "home". I had an apartment on UofL's campus for a time, but I never knew my roommates and didn't feel comfortable venturing out into the shared space much. When I got pregnant, I moved in with my aunt and uncle to their house in La Grange. It was a comfortable, peaceful retreat but when I tried calling it "home" it didn't feel true. Presently, I am living with my family at Ian's grandmother's house. It's a major blessing that we don't have to pay rent or utilities because his grandma invited the three of us into her home - but that is the thing. It's her home, not my own.
I find myself too often longing for the day I get to move in to a place and know I will be staying there for a year or more. A place I can decorate as I wish, a place I can schlep around in whatever clothes I want or don't want to wear, a place I can settle in with my new family and finally have a place I truly call "home". I'm ready to take my possessions out of storage and put them somewhere more permanent and comfortable. I yearn to hammer in a bunch of nails in the walls to hang up a bunch of pictures. I can't wait to have a place where I know where everything is, because I put it there, and it's all my family's and my things - no one else's.
|The last place I called home, courtesy of Google Maps|
Don't hesitate to accept hospitality, because those who work deserve their pay.
The thing about that is, I haven't wanted to do that. I want a place where I am finally the hostess. But I need to remember that many have generously extended their own homes and that I should take it and be grateful.
It's difficult having been the guest for going on two years. But one day, Ian and I will be able to afford a place of hour own and I'll be able to move in my nice couches and decide for myself whether or not I want to recycle and the baby will have his own room.
For now, I wait in the hospitality of others.