This spring we embark on a new adventure, one that none of us look forward to. It involves a childhood home, an elderly mom, a lot of big decisions, and the end of an era. There are sure to be tears involved, because not one of us can look at the house without seeing Dad everywhere, and none of us can let it go without feeling a stab of grief for Mom, who is no longer really able to make the tough choices or do the physical labor involved in the task.
This has been home for our entire lives and part of it will always be. The memories are there, held inside the walls of a tiny house on Mohawk Street, floating through the yards, both front and back, and spreading out into the streets where we played with our friends as children. For fifty-five years it has been "The Plotzker's House" and for nearly thirty years we've called it "Grandma and Grandpa's." I find it difficult to imagine it with any other name.
I listened to my mother's cousin speak at his father's memorial service last week. He talked of cleaning out his parent's house and it struck me how this is most often a job left to the children. There was a certain comfort in knowing we are not alone. We will sort through belongings with love and tenderness, make repairs with utmost respect, and grieve the loss. Part of me is ready to let go and another part is already trying to hold on.
I must remember the gift and surrender it back to the One who gives all things, knowing He is near. How much better to offer it back with open hands than to struggle to hold on to what already belongs to Him.
338. A childhood home
339. Lots of happy memories.
In the Cross
2 hours ago