Someone else owns my house. The pictures are down, the bookshelves empty. The rooms have a strange echo, the sound of emptiness. I have whittled my life down to a few suitcases. Just the necessities while we live in limbo--caught between this old house and our new one.
I run my fingers along the banister where each Christmas I wrapped twinkling garlands. It's empty, now. I pause in my children's rooms and remember quiet afternoon naps, wild wrestling on the floor, prayers and tears, laughter and make-believe. Who keeps the record of passing years? Who will remember what happened between these walls?
There's a certain melancholy to an empty home. I could wax nostalgic, but then I remember the reason I'm leaving this place behind. Life is pushing me out. We are growing, expanding, thriving, and life is pushing us out into new places.
I don't have to sigh over years past. I can smile at the future. God has bestowed my hands with meaningful, honest work. The years of sowing into my children's souls are yet ahead, beckoning me. Life is pushing me out.
One day my body will grow old, weary. One day I will leave behind this fleshly house. One day, Life will push me out of my body and I will fly Home to Jesus. One day they will come looking for me, but I won't live here anymore. Life will have pushed me out.
On Saturday I walk out of this house for the last time. I will close the door and let the sunshine fall on my face.
I don't live here anymore. Life has pushed me out.