Let not our longing slay our appetite for living. -Jim Elliot, in a letter to Elisabeth, his future fiancee.
I could stand in one place and pivot, setting my foot first in the bathroom, then the master bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, and the boy's room. It was tiny, our first home. Noises carried easily, the 1948 hardwood floors creaked and popped incessantly. The kitchen found me pivoting again, as I could turn from the oven to the countertop directly behind me without lifting my feet.
And yet, we hosted many people in our home! I could cook meals and clean up afterwards while friends sat at the little dining table directly across the counter; happily, I could still participate in conver- sation while I sudsed and rinsed. I found nooks for corner shelves to display my tea sets, accented by the cherry wallpaper I lovingly chose.
The steeply pitched roof was graced with icicle lights in winter, casting a cozy glow on the front door that we had stained dark walnut, a berry wreath adorning its' center. The back yard and aged trees were a delight to my husband, who often spent his time off mowing and pruning and feeding his special space. My boys learned to walk on that uneven lawn, Corban running from one end to the other when Daddy returned from his four-month semester in Texas. My husband will never forget the sight of his little arms pumping, feet pumping faster, as he raced across the grass shouting, "Daddy! Hi! Daddy! Hi!"As I write this, I sit in an apartment that is larger than our first home.
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