Not My Own

Home
We just returned from Easter with Grammie and Papa. Although the home my parents’ live in is not the home I grew up in, it is still on the same piece of property and thus feels like home. Every time I’m there, so many memories come back – birthday parties, slumber parties, Christmas, hot dog roasts in the fire pit, getting ready on my wedding day. All of those things happened at home. Now when I take my children up there to visit, my parents go above and beyond to make our time special. Easter Bunnies filled the house this time. Eggs, chicks, baskets, all welcoming the children to come and play! I was reminded how as a child my mother not only made holidays special, but she truly made each day special. She sang songs to us, cooked amazing meals, tickled us, prayed with us, and she loved us passionately. My father always worked so hard to take care of us, he kept us safe, took us on amazing journeys all over the world, he hugged us tightly and freely told us he loved us. Now back to my “home,” I wonder what memories my children will have of this house. The home where they learned to walk, where their baby brother came home from the hospital, where they started pre-school, where they learned to swim, birthday parties, Christmas… Will they remember a mother who made each day special? Who loved them passionately? Who hugged them tightly and freely told them she loved them? No family is perfect. No parent is always right. No amount of money can turn a house into a home. Only love can do that. If we have nothing else to offer our children than our unconditional love, that is more than enough.