My co-worker and I were discussing plans for spring break from the college where we work. “I’m going home,” she declared. I knew this meant she would be traveling to visit her mom and dad several thousand miles away. Though married and middle-aged, home was still where her parents lived.
I could relate. The places where my mom and dad resided always represented “home” to me, no matter what my age. Their house possessed an irresistible magnetic force, especially during the holidays. It was where I could drop in anytime, be warmly welcomed, and stay as long as I wanted. Mom and Dad’s home represented familiarity, comfort, love, and security. It was my soft place to land.
Even after mom passed away eight years ago, dad remained living in their house, so it continued to serve as a central gathering place for our family. For years I dreaded the day when dad would no longer be able to live there and my brothers and I would be faced with dissolving his estate. Though I knew it was inevitable, the thought overwhelmed me—not only because of the magnitude of the task, but because it would mean losing my home base.
This past fall that time sadly arrived for our family. After our dad’s health turned, we were faced with disassembling his home filled with a lifetime of memories. Continue reading