Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong (29 page)

None of us wanted to leave her, and it wasn’t because we thought it would make such a big difference if we stayed. We just wanted to postpone the moment when she walked back into her house and there were only four people who lived there, not five. We wanted to protect her from having to deal with everything that would be waiting for her when she got home, and we wanted to stay close by to help however she needed. But real life
 
—well, it wouldn’t let us.

So when I gave Elise one last hug, I pretty much just wanted to crawl into the fetal position and stay there indefinitely. That seemed like a way better plan than leaving.

But then something snapped me out of my I-really-want-to-stay-here funk.

I turned and looked back toward the room where we’d been sitting, and the sight of all those sweet faces from our college days stirred something
way deep in my heart. We’d left Starkville as friends who loved one another completely and unconditionally, and we’d continued to do that through good times and bad. The next chapter of Elise’s life, while not at all what any of us expected, wouldn’t be any different as far as those relationships were concerned. Elise’s friends would stand with her and walk with her no matter what. Whatever might be ahead, she had her people. And her people might be going home, but in the ways that matter most, we weren’t going anywhere.

Neither was the Lord, for that matter. And He does tend to make a difference, you know.

Elise’s daddy probably would have told me that I could have saved myself a whole lot of bellyaching if I’d just reminded myself of that last thing a little sooner.

Better late than never, right?  

T
HE HOUSE WE
live in now is a long, rambling ranch home that was built in 1974. Over the years we’ve learned a little bit about the family that built it: they had three girls, they owned a flooring company, and they loved to entertain. I probably could have figured out that last piece of information even if no one had told us; every single room has two ways in or out, and if I think about the house in its 1974 incarnation, I can’t help but picture the lady of the house passing a tray of canapés as she swept from room to room in her Pucci hostess gown. Or maybe the Pucci hostess gown would have been passé by then. Maybe she’d have been wearing some bell-bottoms with a sassy
Maude
-esque duster.

Either ensemble would have been rock solid in my humble estimation.

Our house wasn’t technically on the market when David found an old “for sale” listing online, but we were frustrated after a months-long search for what we hoped would be our “forever” home (or our “for as long as the Lord keeps us in Birmingham” home), and he decided to take a chance.
When he called the owners to ask if we could look at it, they agreed. It happened to be in the part of Birmingham where Aunt Chox and Uncle Joe’s friends had lived
 
—the neighborhood with all the pine trees and crape myrtles and mimosas.

The neighborhood that reminded me of my hometown.

It was a drizzly, damp October afternoon when we first went to see the house. Wet leaves plastered the driveway, so I held Alex’s little three-year-old hand as we shuffled our way to the front stoop. I had already rung the doorbell by the time David caught up with us, and as soon as the owner cracked open the door, I caught a glimpse of the living room.

I knew, almost instantly, that we had found our spot.

Windows ran the entire length of the back of the house, and the canopy of trees in the backyard created the most gorgeous filter for the sunlight that seemed to pour in from every angle. And then, when I saw that the sunken living room had steps on three sides, I turned to David and said, “If we buy this house, I want someone to come play the guitar in the living room. And I want people to sit on those steps and sing. DO YOU THINK AMY GRANT AND VINCE GILL WOULD WANT TO DO A SHOW HERE?”

To his credit, he did not tell me I was crazy. He just grinned at me. And I knew that he could see us there too.

Our neighborhood was one of the first subdivisions outside the Birmingham city limits, and when a large corporation developed the land back in the early seventies, lots of folks thought the company was crazy to create a development so far out in the boondocks.

I’m laughing as I type that, by the way. Because if you could see the sheer quantity of businesses that border our little suburban oasis, you’d know that we’re certainly not in the boondocks anymore.

Back in the seventies, though, our neighborhood was marketed as a place for Birmingham businessmen to retire
 
—and, well, they did. The area also started to attract younger families, and when we moved in some thirty-five years later, that first wave of younger parents was, on average,
around seventy or seventy-five years old. That meant we had a lot of older neighbors, which was totally fine by us since David and I are the kind of people who like to eat supper at five thirty, change into pajamas by six, and be settled in front of the TV by seven or seven thirty at the latest.

Seriously. You could move us to a retirement home right this second, and after about four days we’d probably decide the living environment was way too fast paced.

So while the demographics of our subdivision suited us just fine, we weren’t sure about how Alex would adapt to a neighborhood that didn’t seem to have many kids. Ultimately, though, the house was such a great deal that we decided maybe some scheduled playdates could provide what the neighborhood could not, and we took a chance.

For the first year in the new-to-us house, our neighborhood stayed largely the same. So we went to the park and invited Alex’s friends over and in the summertime spent an inordinate amount of time in our kiddie pool. But then, slowly but surely, families with young kids started to move in, and after all the grown-ups got to know each other and the young’uns were old enough to walk from one house to another, our street became host to a big, roaming pack-o-kids in the afternoons. And it still is now, more than five years later.

On any given afternoon I watch Alex and his buddies march up and down the street carrying foam swords and plastic shields before they stage an epic battle in the cul-de-sac. Sometimes the girls want to jump in and fight with the boys, but they’re more likely to practice cheers or ride bikes or beg the boys to run through sprinklers with them. When it’s cold or rainy, the kids will gather round the glow of an iPad screen or set up a board game, but their absolute favorite inside activity is a VERY LOUD variety of indoor tag that they’ve christened Elmo vs. Zoe. I don’t really understand it and only allow it on days when my nerves are enjoying a significant amount of margin, but oh my goodness, the laughing. A herd of pigs would snort and wheeze less than those kids do.

And while I certainly can’t be the spokesperson for Alex’s childhood, I think it’s pretty safe to say that he has enjoyed the fire out of all our neighborhood fun, because he is growing up in the company of some pretty
phenomenal kids. In fact, about a year and a half ago, David, Alex, and I were on the way home after Sunday lunch, and after we turned into our subdivision, we talked for a few minutes about how pretty everything looked: the fresh spring green of the leaves popping against the turquoise sky, the branches of the Bradford pears sagging with the weight of crisp, white blooms, and hot-pink azaleas peppering the rolling hills. The scenery made me fall in love with Birmingham all over again.

We were only a few yards from our street when Alex, who had just turned ten, spoke up.

“Well, here we are,” he said. “My favorite street in the entire universe.”

“Why’s that, buddy?” David asked.

“It’s home,” Alex said matter-of-factly.

I didn’t say anything, but my heart nodded in agreement.

Our first house in Birmingham had almost no trees. In fact, the only tree that escaped the developer’s backhoe was a gangly sycamore that stood (sort of) proudly in the backyard. We planted a few other trees while we were there
 
—some crape myrtles, a couple of peach trees, a Bradford pear (which, by the way, my brother calls “mall trees”)
 
—but we didn’t live there long enough to really see them take off and grow. We saw them bloom over a couple of springs, but that was it.

At our current house, however, we’re surrounded by big, sturdy trees. I’m sure my daddy could tell us the name of every single one, but the names don’t really matter to me; I just know that they’re pretty and that they put on a show all year long. Every room in our house has a view of leaves, and David and Alex would tell you that I can watch those leaves like they’re a TV show. There are even a couple of branches in the backyard that look like they’re waving to me when the wind blows.

So when we moved to the place where we live now, I realized that living in a house without a lot of trees had made me forget the rhythm of how things bud and bloom and change and grow. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to me or anything like that
 
—but I did think it was interesting.

Well.

A few years ago we had one of those springs where we were getting pummeled by the pollen, and finally, one Sunday night in late March, our local meteorologist predicted a strong thunderstorm. Normally we dreaded bad weather because one of our dogs hated thunder, but in that particular instance we were excited and hopeful that the rain might offer some relief from the allergy onslaught we’d been experiencing for a couple of weeks.

Sure enough, the thunderstorm arrived at about seven that night. It was loud and dramatic and spectacular
 
—as thunderstorms tend to be
 
—and the rain poured fast and furious for almost two hours.

Right before bed I took our dogs outside for their last trip of the night, and when I walked out the back door, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Honestly, I’d forgotten it was even possible.

Late that afternoon our dogwood trees had been covered in buds. But after the rain, they’d burst into full bloom.

Even in the darkness.

And it was the sweetest, most visceral reminder that some of the most beautiful transformations take place during some of the darkest times.

I don’t know about you, but I can testify to that.

Hallelujah. And amen.

In the springtime there are few things I enjoy more than spending a Friday afternoon at a high school baseball game, and this past April, I got to do just that during the state play-offs. My school was playing another local high school, and it was one of those spring days when it was almost like the birds and the trees and the sky and the sun got together and said, “Hey. Let’s really show off today. Let’s make this afternoon something extra special.”

Alex asked one of his best buddies to go with us, and once we got to the game, we could only find a parking space on the side of an incline that would totally qualify as a small mountain, so we practically had to rappel down to the baseball field. As soon as I bought our tickets, the boys saw a friend and made a beeline for concession-stand candy, so I walked over to the visitor bleachers to find a seat. I plopped down next to a friend who’s a
few years ahead of me in terms of motherhood; she and her husband have five kids
 
—I’ve taught four of them
 
—and I love and admire their precious family so much. Alex’s fourth-grade teacher was just across the aisle from us, and about ten of “my” eleventh graders sat a few rows up from her.

And then the home team threw the first pitch, and we all watched some baseball.

Y’all, it was the most ordinary day. Yes, it was beautiful outside, but in lots of ways it was just another spring day in another Southern city on another high school baseball field. Pitchers pitched, and hitters hit, and as the score climbed higher and higher in our team’s favor, we all high-fived and hollered and occasionally even hugged. When Alex and his friends weren’t running behind the bleachers, they staged a game of their own on the side of the field.