Twelve years I have waited, prayed, desired, and begged God to move me back home. For all that time, I tried to balance enjoying my present life while not letting my dreams consume me. And if you can believe it… after all those years… it finally happened, just a little more than a month ago.

Home.

I was 29 when I left, and now I’m back at almost 42 years old. It feels as if I’ve been here along, yet at the same time, I feel like I’ve been such a nomad chasing butterflies and dreams… but with a husband, two boys, and a dog trailing behind me.

I honestly believed this move would make me whole… that the memories, the beach walks, and the familiar side roads would fill my lungs so full of contentment that I could finally breathe in those twelve years of prayers.

But instead, I feel lost.

There’s a mind game I play with myself… that not feeling completely fulfilled is some kind of letdown to the people I love. But I’m learning that the work inside of us doesn’t end when we finally reach the thing we’ve been waiting for. The real work is letting life flow through us while it keeps moving around us.

And maybe yearning isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe it’s just part of being human… to want, to reach, to keep going.

And maybe that’s the point… that we are never fully finished, just faithfully waiting.

For now, I’m renting, and sometimes it makes me feel a little unrooted… caught between what was and what’s still coming. Even in the middle of waiting, there are moments that remind me why we keep building, keep dreaming, keep laughing.

The pictures below are of the house I left behind. It was beautiful and held so much of our hearts. When we first bought it, it was only about 60% finished, it wasn’t even for sale! I somehow talked the builder into it. We were looking for a space of rest after the traumatic journey we walked with our son, and we poured everything into making it ours.

We added a private pool… the only place my son could safely swim as a transplant patient, aside from the ocean. I thought it would be fun to make it eight feet deep for my youngest, my little free bird, diving and swooping through the water… there’s something nostalgic about an eight-foot pool, isn’t there? Even in the laughter and play, I felt the weight of every prayer that had brought us here.

We planted my grandparents’ roses… carefully carried from house to house over the years… finally giving them a home. We built fireplaces, ordered lunch for the workers, and built an outdoor kitchen.

We laughed at memories, stressed over mistakes, learned how to build shutters, and excitedly picked out colors and countertops. I would cry when the rain turned the yard to mud… and the dog would happily bring it inside. We watched birds’ nests being built and sat in awe as the trees handled every season with effortless confidence.

This house showed me how much I truly love making a home cozy. It’s the catalyst for why I started this blog, and I’ll carry this home with me forever. Perhaps this is some sort of ode to the past…but I hope you’ve enjoyed walking through it with me.

Psalm 40:2 “He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings”.

I often look around at how my life seems to drastically change while others remain the same. It’s something I can only explain as beautiful and tiring… how odd it is that they can both c0-exist. This is the last picture I took of our house as we did our final walkthrough. The darkness is a bit jolting, but just beyond, there is light.

With Love,
Erica
Salty Blonde Living