remember

this house is old.

the peeling wallpaper in the kitchen has known many years, seen many tenants. the scuffed wood floors have heard many feet, dancing, stomping.

but there's something about it.

the way the sun hits the sliding glass doors in the kitchen, filling the little dining nook with warm light + promising a new day. new mercies, fresh grace. hallelujah.

the large window in the living room at the front of the house. perfect for quiet days in, watching passersby on their way to life.

what it lacks in seating availabiltiy, it makes up in warmth; both a result of the multiple space heaters as well as the openness that we've fostered over the year we've been here. an openness we've fostered quite well, if I do say so myself.

we might be just a blip on this house's radar, one more family to add to the list of those who have lived within its walls. it may not remember us, but oh, we will remember it.

we will remember this as the first home we could call a home, and not simply another apartment to add to the list of those in which we've lived in this town. it was the first time we didn't have other familiies [related by blood or the blood of Christ] living above or around us. and it's been good.

we will remember this as the place where people came to escape, from roommates, from schoolwork, from life, and find peace. acceptance. family. always. no holds barred.

we will remember this as the home to which we brought our first child. where she has grown from a newborn who didn't make a sound even when she cried -- that jaundiced little thing -- to a thriving, healthy baby, crawling around on her chubby knees and calling to us when the mornings come.

these floors might not remember us, but oh, we will remember them.

writing with Lisa Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday. 

hop on over + see how others interpret remember.