If houses had feelings, I’d call our old parsonage happy now. Its quiet street lies outside our normal routes, so we don’t see it often, but I recently suggested we commit a drive-by viewing.
The Preacher and I, with my visiting sister and brother-in-law in tow, pulled up to the home we’d loved for sixteen years. Bev and Bruce knew the house too. We were all curious after learning that the denomination had sold it to a private owner.
I’d dreamed of buying number 87 one day. After living there so long, raising our family in its comfortable rooms, burying beloved pets out back, it felt like family. But life turned a corner. When we said good-bye for the last time I realized, not without sorrow, that God had shut that door permanently.
We live elsewhere now, happily. But in a curious way, perhaps the homes we have lived in always belong to us. We preserve them in our memory; dust and maintain them with each recollection shared.
Parked curbside, we reviewed some of those memories. “Hey, hon, remember when I made those palm trees?” (Twin cedars shaved to the trunk, with tufts on the top. Neighbours laughed for weeks).
An SUV pulled up in the driveway. A young couple and two dogs exited. The lady looked over at us, curious. “We’re not really staring at your house,” I called, by way of apology. Then added, “Well, actually we are. We lived here for sixteen years...”
She laughed. Extended a gift that almost left me breathless. “Would you like to see the inside too? I just cleaned this morning, so I don’t mind.”
The Preacher declined, knowing the stairs would hinder him, but my sister joined me. We all introduced ourselves, and just like that, the memory string lengthened.
I’d visited the parsonage only once since leaving there seven years prior. Some things had already changed then; but even more since. Classic colonial doors replaced doors of tired mahogany. Floors now wore laminate instead of worn lino and carpet. Walls had moved, changed colour. Lighting and plumbing fixtures had been updated.
“It’s beautiful,” I told the owner, thanking her for her generosity. “Completely transformed. And your decorating should be in a magazine.” She smiled. She’d smiled all along as I had shared story fragments from the years we’d lived there.
“I feel like giving you a hug,” I said, before she shut the door behind me. She hugged me back.
Something like that will happen in heaven one day. Someone will be there suddenly. Right in front of me. Ones I have loved and lost; my mother, my sisters... anyone else saved by Christ’s mercy and grace during their years on earth.
I’ll know them instantly. They’ll be more themselves than they ever were - except completely transformed, like number 87. All their weary and sore will have vanished. Our hugs will continue forever. But unlike number 87, I’ll never again say farewell.
