We moved over the weekend. This means, of course, that I do not know the location of my favorite brush, or the mustard. And I write to you under the influence of a strong sleep aid (dear Lord, may this post not be too delirious). Each day we ingratiate ourselves to new things – the new shower heads and water heater settings, or the new angle of the sun through the kitchen window in the morning.
And, as we unpack, surrounding ourselves with the artifacts and images of history, we call this new house ‘home’. But that word –home – comes out of our mouths like shards of dried molasses. We’re wise enough to know that this new place will be home over time. But we just left the home of our hearts. It was a good decision. It was time. But wow, we did not want to leave.
I just said goodbye to the home that held our lives for the first five years of our marriage. That home held goodness and struggle and negotiations and arguments and redemption and a blending of family, dogs and chickens. I have come to know more of my great step-daughters, discovering their nuanced and glorious ways, in our sun-drenched living room. A young man with no home told us his story there, agreeing to work for us, saving up money for a bus ride back to his home state so that he would not have to hitchhike and be vulnerable to prostituting himself at truck stops. We opened Christmas presents in that room. That room was a balm to me as we wept and prayed on the floor, confused and befuddled by a string of broken and redirected dreams. I answered my cell phone in that room when Carole called to tell me Ryan had died. Steve and I cut our wedding cake in the far corner.
“The Pinal House” has been a place of refuge for me. The elegant sway of our Eastern Elm, the shade of the Cedar in the high Colorado sun, and the tiered rock wall (built by the WPA in the 1940s) filled with roses, have all been a balm to me after trekking through the underbelly of peoples’ lives and harm. There’s nothing better, after fending off the demons that track the heart through the complexities of sexual abuse, than having a chicken follow you so you will stroke her feathers, or picking raspberries.
One of the crowning glories of this home has been the birds. Nestled against the foothills of the Rockies, and surrounded by glorious mature trees (100 years+), it is a haven for migrating flocks as well as some of the more rare local birds. Jesus brought glimpses of the other world to our birdfeeder or bushes. “Shhh,” Jesus would say. “Look, Jan. Don’t you love her? Do you see how much I love you?”
This happened particularly through the glory of the lazuli bunting. Here is what she looks like:
Gorgeous, right? Two lazuli buntings made appearances on our property over the past five years, but their unveiling was precise – every time. If the weariness of war, the long road of unrealized hope, or stinging grief proved too much – those little wonders showed up and found me gasping at the window.
Our decision to move was made after cumulative seasons of loss, so I found myself pulling against the bit and reigns of change like a horse who just doesn’t want to head to the stall. The brilliant blue in the bunting settled me down; told me it was okay.
Even still, I was convinced that when we moved to a new ecosystem (across town but truly a world away), I would lose the bunting sightings.
Well, this morning I woke up in this new-house-which-maybe-will-be-truly-home-over-time place, and as I stumbled outside with my coffee, the gasp was louder than ever. There were seven – SEVEN – lazuli buntings, perched on bushes, wires, walls and playfully bantering in the air.
So let me move carefully with this. What is not being said here is that, when we lose something, we can always predict that what we lose will be restored seven-fold on this earth. Try telling that to a fourteen-year-old who is taken from his parents due to their drug habit, only to be put in a poorly chosen foster home in which abuse occurs.
No, what is being said is, simply, our hearts hold the truest Home at all times. There is a place between The Home we remember and the Home we dream (Buechner), and that place is this life. Someone chiseled a poem once out of the granite of harsh days, and it held the familiar words “Lord, you have been our home through every generation.”
If that is true, then we have to unpack. And we get to be surprised.
 
Jan Meyers Proett has been a counselor for over twenty years and is the author of The Allure of Hope, Listening to Love, and Beauty and the Bitch: Grace for the Worst in Me, and most recently The Dogeagram, Understanding the Mystery of Dogs:(and occasional mocking of their humans). She has worked on behalf of exploited women internationally, but also loves the trails of Colorado, where she lives with her husband, Steve. Find Jan on Instagram and at her Facebook author page, and her blog.
&n
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Your sharing of such a sweet story offers me a door open to freedom to believe God comes for us in earthly and other-earthly ways. I, too, have stories of visitations of feathered friends and have kept them hidden, certain they were too edgy to share. Thank you for giving me courage to look for all the ways God comes for us. I am holding on to your words….”when we lose something, we can always predict that what we lose will be restored seven-fold on this earth.” I’m going to ponder today what the little bluebird who comes to peck at my kitchen window each morning is wanting to restore in me.
Valerie, I am glad for any freedom this brings you. And I love that the bluebird comes to your window! It would probably be good, though, to clarify that I actually said: “So let me move carefully with this. What is not being said here is that, when we lose something, we can always predict that what we lose will be restored seven-fold on this earth. Try telling that to a fourteen-year-old who is taken from his parents due to their drug habit, only to be put in a poorly chosen foster home in which abuse occurs.
No, what is being said is, simply, our hearts hold the truest Home at all times. There is a place between The Home we remember and the Home we dream (Buechner), and that place is this life.”
I’ve moved probably twenty-five times since leaving home for college at 18. And your words ring so, so true for me, Jan….THAT place is THIS life. How kind of our God to send those beautiful birds to you. Yes. We must unpack, although I’ve found that we can take our time with this. May the blessings of your new place continue to cause you to lift up your eyes to the hills, and may those brilliant bursts of color in the dark trees bring song to your heart day by day. I love your writing and hope to meet you someday.
Oooohhhh.. that is a lot of moving. Yes, we will take our time. Thanks so much. Is your name Catalina or Catalinakel or Cat or or or…?
I’m Kelli, but lived in and loved Catalina, so nicknamed myself that.
This so touched my heart. We too have recently moved, which was a very good thing, but still takes adjusting. God bless you for all you do, and may the surprises be sweet and abundant.
Thank you!
I love how God showed you His great delight in, and love for you right where you were! He is so good- and you are beloved!
And now, God, some owls for Steve, please??
Happy home-warming, friends…
Yes, God… do you hear Amy?! Owls would be great.
Jan, this is a lovely, poignant reflection on the mysterious predictability of God’s kindness made manifest – not as we ask for or expect, necessarily, but as we need it to be. Tokens of love, of being noticed and cared for. Thank you.
Molly, the kindness of it still overwhelms me. Thanks for your words.
Welcome to your home…love your settling words. I, too, remember the new sounds and wonder of moving. God is good, carry on and enjoy the glory of life there!
Thanks, Mary Jane!
Your writing today captures a redemption I am experiencing this spring. I haven’t moved physically, but I have recently released old patterns with my Mother that used to feel like home. The last month my Granny’s favorite bird (the scissor tailed flycatcher) has shown up on my Oklahoma drives to carpool in unlikely numbers. I can almost see my Granny whispering to the Father….”now…have one fly right now.” Seeing those birds reassures me that my God knows me. Thank you for sharing how particularly he loves you.
Shandee…. that is simply beautiful.
Waking in a house that will one day be your home is a feeling I understand. Being surprised by how Jesus knows your heart and sends what it needs to begin to settle into the rest the new space provides is such a sweet thing. I am glad He sent you that gift so soon! I hope and pray for much goodness in this new home for you and Steve.
Thanks, Tracy. I know you understand!
“So let me move carefully with this. What is not being said here is that, when we lose something, we can always predict that what we lose will be restored seven-fold on this earth.” Thank you for this, for the care you take in putting words to both the grief of loss as well as the surprising hope so perfectly laid out for you in a new place. Both feel real and good to hold onto today.
So beautiful. Thank you.
And we get to be surprised…..I hear hope ! Your words settled into an empty place that called out to be filled. Thank you…….