Small Hours

I've been thinking a lot about our recent vacation.  Wow.  We spent a week puttering around our own house and a week of non-stop eating at my mom’s house in Nebraska.  Both were satisfying, but the Nebraska trip stirred up some things that took me by surprise.

I think it started about the third night we were there.  I began to wake up in the wee hours.  Instead of being irritated at having a night of sleep interrupted, I lay there and listened. 

I’ve spent most of my life in that house, and more specifically, in that room.  I learned to be scared of the dark there, snuck out with friends repeatedly from there, got ready for my wedding there and tended to my newborn babies in a crib at the foot of the bed.  I know the creaks and pops the house makes as it settles, I know what each door sounds like as it opens and shuts, the intense silence in the middle of the night and the sweet sounds that come with the first streams of sunlight in the morning.  It’s all so familiar to me that I hardly hear it when I’m there.

But this time was different.  Everything seemed to take on a new meaning as I lay awake and listened.  Things are changing and I realized I’m just not ready for it yet.

My father passed away four years ago.  It was a bittersweet occasion for me.  I knew I would see him again in Heaven, but was unprepared for the void his absence left.  For months I would think of things I wanted to tell him only to realize he wasn’t there anymore to tell.  I also started thinking about how nothing lasts forever.

Now my mom is 83.  She stills moves like lightning—that is until she sits down in her chair for “a rest.”  Within seconds she is asleep and I noticed it’s happening more frequently.  I caught myself watching her a lot this visit and wondering what life would be like without her. 

The loss of my mom would mean we’d sell the house.  No more listening to her moving around the kitchen, no more sounds of traffic up and down the small alley behind the house, no more hearing the familiar strains of The Tonight Show through the wall.  The sadness seemed overwhelming at times. 

I know, I know, mom’s still there, nothing’s changed yet, but I’m learning time has a way of moving on—quickly.  And before you know it, things are different.  I want to be prepared. 

That house has been the staging area for my life.  In fact, it never crossed my mind that there would ever be a time when I wouldn’t return there.  But now as that time comes ever closer, I realize the importance of the small hours spent within its walls.  The turbulent times have all been replaced with a sense of sweetness that I want to hang on to for the rest of my life.

And, I’m grateful.  To a mother and father who did the best they could with what they had.  To brothers and sisters who love me.  To a God who has allowed me the opportunity to be in a family who loved well.  And for a house that was at the center of it all.