Last night was our last night in our house.
After running errands and packing, we sat down (on our floor) to homemade pork chop, brussels sprout, green beans, and cookies – courtesy of Becca (thank you, friend – it was the most timely of gifts!).
We bathed and showered the girls, put on PJs, brushed teeth, read books…just like we have for the past four years.
Tim stayed up late boxing things up and making trips in a borrowed truck to various places. I fell asleep early (right beside my girls).
Now, it it dark and the house is quiet. I am sitting here typing at a card table, perched on a 3-legged camp chair. I’m feeling surprisingly nostalgic – looking around at my empty home, scattered belongings on the floor. This is where I rocked my babies, nursed them, stayed up through the night when they were sick, watched my toddler run across the great room, made love to my husband, and danced in the kitchen to make my girls laugh at the breakfast table.
I catch my breath (barely breathing). This isn’t a dream.
I’ve never prayed more.