We don’t have much of a house. In fact, we don’t even have a house, we live in an apartment. But every night, way up here on the third floor, we are home. We are home because in-between these borrowed walls that don’t belong to us, we belong to each other. And every night, way up in the skyline, we find rest. It’s where stories go to dwell in the mind of a small boy. It’s where love is lived through late-night reruns of American Pickers. It’s where that big, hefty sigh from the work of a long day is quenched. Right here, in-between these borrowed walls.
And the mornings. Oh, the mornings are my favorite in this little home we’ve made for ourselves. We shuffle out to the living room, Judah and I — he, wide-eyed and ready for the day; me, groggy and coffee deprived. And then we sit. We stake our claim right there on the living room floor and we play pretend with fake phones and read stories about grumpy fish. I sip my coffee while he eats his banana, and we deliberate on the day’s upcoming events.
And then off we go to see the world, to feel the newness of the day and rest in it for a bit. Our feet touch the edge of land while seashells reside in the palms of our hands. And then we’ll talk. I’ll point out birds and trees and the colors of the rainbow. And Judah will babble in excited wonder.
But we always come back, you see, back to our little home in the sky. Because it’s where the hush of the day is savored. It’s where we eat and rest and love — David, Judah and I. . . together. And so, yes, these borrowed walls do not belong to us, but the memories we make here do. And that is worth more than an address.
It is everything.