When Home Doesn't Feel Like Home
“When I die, I want to be buried in Boise,” Alisha told me.We live in Colorado.
In a way only God works, we were in Boise when Alisha died three weeks later.
Still out of state after Alisha's accident and funeral, a well-meaning neighbor attempted to clean out Alisha’s bedroom before we came home.
Thankfully, another young teenage neighbor physically stopped her. Jody, the young girl, had already lost her own mother. She understood something few adults could’ve known. She knew I needed to come home to my daughter’s presence one last time.
I’ve never forgotten that act of kindness. She protected something I didn't even realize I’d need.
When we finally walked through our front door, everything looked exactly as we’d left it. Alisha's room was still her room. Her clothes hung in the closet. Her belongings were where she'd left them. It was heartbreaking, but it was also a gift. We were able to sit in her room, hold the things she had touched, cry together, and begin saying goodbye in our own time and our own way.
No one can decide when another family's heart is ready.
Home doesn't simply become quieter after a deep loss. It becomes unfamiliar.
The backpack by the door. A favorite sweatshirt hanging on a hook. Shoes by the back door. The laughter that once filled the hallway. Every room is a reminder that someone is missing.
After loss, we don't simply miss the person. We miss the version of home that existed when they were in it.
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For years I measured motherhood by counting children. First, I was the mother of one. Jason.
Then two (Alisha). Later three and four.
Then, in a single afternoon, I became the mother of three.
Years later, my son Jason died. I became the mother of two.
My heart never accepted that math.
Even now, if someone asks how many children I have, my heart still answers differently than my words, depending on who is asking and why?
Some of the hardest reminders were the everyday routines.
Every night before I went to bed, I checked on my children. I would peek into bedrooms, straighten a blanket that had been kicked off, listen to the quiet sound of breathing, and make sure everyone was safely home.Then one night there was one less bedroom to visit. No one prepares us for that.
The empty chair at the dinner table is painful, but eventually we realize the whole house has become an empty chair.
Loss also changes the way we think about ordinary moments.
None of us know when we're experiencing the last time.
· The last family vacation.
· The last birthday together.
· The last Christmas morning.
· The last ride to school.
· The last ordinary conversation.
· The last hug.
For years I tried to remember whether I hugged Alisha before she left home the day of her accident. I honestly couldn't remember. That uncertainty haunted me.
When Jason died years later, I realized something different. He’d been living in another state, and it had been nearly two years since I’d last wrapped my arms around him. Neither of us knew that hug would be our last.
Most of us assume tomorrow will look a lot like today.
Usually, it does. Until it doesn't. We don't get to know which ordinary moments will become sacred memories. I’m sure that’s God’s grace.
Maybe that's why God continually reminds us to love well today instead of assuming there’ll always be another opportunity tomorrow. To speak the kind words. Forgive quickly. To say, "I love you." To make the phone call. To give the hug when we can.
Because someday, one ordinary day will unknowingly become the last.
When our home doesn't feel quite like home anymore, we're not alone.
Whether our loss came through death, divorce, estrangement, illness, deployment, or children growing up and leaving, home changes because love lived there. The emptiness we feel isn't a sign that we're failing to move forward. It's evidence that someone mattered deeply.
God understands empty places. He also promises His presence within them.
"Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom." Psalm 90:12 (NLT)
Today, if home feels different than it once did, may we remember this: the people we love leave fingerprints on our hearts and throughout our homes. While rooms may grow silent, God's presence never does. He is still walking these familiar halls with us, bringing comfort one ordinary day at a time.
