On leaving home...

When I have moved out of a house I have usually gone from room to room, remembering what happened in each before going out the door the last time. We just left our home of nineteen years on Summit View. But the ending was too chaotic for a trip down memory lane. So I thought I would write about my memories. If you're interested, keep reading.

A friend our daughter brought home once crouched down in our front entry, his legs splayed like a spider's, his face nearly touching the maple flooring we had just installed. “Mr. Riggins!” he said, “this is the most beautiful floor I have ever seen!”

Our wonderful mutt Ella loved the water. She even liked baths. But if you let go of her for one second she would spring out of the guest bathtub and shake soapy water over everything.

When we first moved to Traverse City our daughter Laura was angry and lonely. She longed for the idyllic life she had shared with her Seymour friends. Her mother and I spent hours sitting with her on her bed, trying to console her. She was brave, she forgave us, and she found a way to start a new life. She has done that several times. All of it.

A number of good things happened in Dan's room but honestly, my favorite memory there involved his beloved kitten Lindele. When he first brought her home she would climb all the way up his drapes, then mew in distress at finding herself so far up there. That same Lindele now stalks her temporary domain in the new building at church with her partner in crime, Oreo the Second.

Oreo the First ruled our bedroom. But some of my best memories there came on Christmas Eves. Despite our best intentions Linda and I were never ready for the next morning. So after leading candlelight services I would set up shop, wrapping presents on our bed and watching Christmas music programs. It was an excellent way to decompress from church and to prepare to celebrate with family.

My favorite memory in our bathroom involves my beloved. That's all I'm saying.

Our newly-planted church held one of its first worship services in our living room. We pushed the furniture to the walls and set out folding chairs. Linda and some ladies laid out a feast for afterward. Maybe thirty attended. Soon we could not fit in anybody's living room.

We hosted many a meal in our dining room. I remember doing the “Alphonse, Gastone” (look it up) thing with my dad  before he finally relented to my insistence that he carve a turkey. I did not know at the time I would never share another Thanksgiving with him. But I recall much laughter at those meals, and a lot of story-telling, some of it possibly true.

We shared hours on our sun porch, eating meals and playing table games during the warmer months. Out in the backyard Linda and I once had a bittersweet playtime with Grand-dog Brianna, who had lived with us for a year. Her rightful and loving owner, Dan, would take her back to live with him the next morning. He graciously stepped aside to let us wrestle and tug and hug her. We were so focused on her we did not even notice he was taking pictures of the whole thing. I really can't look at them still. I will never forget my son's compassion.

In the utility room downstairs Laura sat for hours, whispering gently to our dying cat, Shadow. Shadow came to live with me all the way back in the dorm at IU. I will never forget my daughter's compassion.

How many hours did I spend slogging away on the treadmill downstairs while gasping out questions to Jeopardy answers? But the greatest memory I have of our basement is also one of my favorites of all. My beloved (a fellow IU basketball band alumnus) and I watched the 2011 IU v. Kentucky game together on the couch. We screamed at the refs (and when I say “we” I mean, “we”), we shouted and moaned. When Watford hit The Shot we jumped up and hugged and carried on before calling her parents to share the moment with people we knew would understand.

Of such things are lives made. I am deeply grateful to God for the gift of the years in our house on Summit View.