I nearly cried watching the movers carry the first box off the truck, but I thought better of it and instead took the time to reflect on the long, winding couple of years leading to this moment.  And unpacking has been like Christmas on steroids (sorry for the hint of sacrilege – I really don’t mean anything by it other than it’s nice to experience such excitement over opening unmarked box after box after box).

We’re loving the new house – I was so concerned it wouldn’t feel like home, but the first night, as I tucked the girls into bed and turned the last light off in the house, silence settled and I realized it’s really no different than before – a house isn’t what makes the home, though we like this particular house quite a lot.

That first night, around midnight, Erick and I took ice-cream out on the front porch and watched the slow ascent of stars and fireflies flicker in the field across the street.  In 2003, we stood before this house as it was being built and said we’d love to have a house like it someday, and there we were looking out on the place where we once stood.  It wasn’t a feeling of accomplishment, but of relief.  We’re finally in a place where the neighbors stop by to check in on us and the cows moo before a storm out at pasture – far more accurate than any weather station; we feel we’re at a point where we can settle for some time and after a couple of years of upheaval (four moves and two states later), we’ve arrived some place; we’ve come home.