Our House, Our Home

As Nicole Johnson and her family prepare to move to a new home, she reflects on the beauty of the memories of their years there and moves forward in trust.

There is much I love about this house we have called home for the past eleven years, but it’s the light that I will miss the most. The breadth of windows far exceeds the expanse of wall space, allowing the natural light to pour in from all sides even on a cloudy day. We sit just high enough on a hill that we’ve lived curtainless on the first floor all these years, our privacy threatened only by the birds and other tree dwellers curious enough to take note of our daily lives.

The sunsets we have enjoyed from this perfect perch are too numerous to count and too stunning to soon forget. The winds have traveled up this hill with an unforgiving ferocity time and again, yet stand strong she did: 47 Tansy Avenue, sheltering us for 44 seasons, 572 weeks, over 4,000 days. And oh, how full those days have been. 

Our Home Within Our House 

It was in this house that more space quickly took on more literal meaning than I was ready for or ever, admittedly, grew accustomed to. In this house I watched as my children sprouted their wings and grew into their own.   

It was in this house that each of our children hit their teenage years, survived the awkwardness of middle school and transitioned to high school to find their confidence, their people, and their place.  

It was from this driveway that both our boys made their maiden solo voyage behind the wheel, with countless trips to follow, and it was from our bedroom that sits directly above the garage that I awoke time and again to their homecoming, an immediate prayer of gratitude escaping my lips before letting sleep again take hold.  

It was in this house that each of us experienced, absorbed, and were somehow changed by successes and failures, highs and lows, first steps, last steps, and missteps. 

It was against these walls that our voices echoed: in love, in excitement, in fear, in question, in celebration, in laughter, in anger and in forgiveness.  

It was in this house that we nursed: broken bones, broken hearts, broken dreams and broken promises.  

It was in this house where we took refuge, from storms both literal and figurative — the most intense of which left us feeling more like prisoners during a pandemic the likes of which we pray to never endure again.  

It was in this house we graduated: from elementary school to high school to college, from music novice to exquisitely skilled guitarist, from young artist to inspired fashion design major and from the world’s feistiest toddler to a mature young lady (ok, still rather feisty). 

It was in this house we celebrated: birthdays, anniversaries, Thanksgivings, Easters and Christmases. At the top of these stairs is where our children sat each Christmas morning for the forced picture before running down to tear through their gifts.  

It was in this kitchen I fed my family: one who lived for all things pasta, one who wouldn’t touch a starch, and one who just wanted to be at the table regardless of what sat on her plate.  

It was at this kitchen island where we sat to eat and I hope, in some way, the consistency of that effort each night — the coming together — fed much more than the bodies around the table.  

It was in this house we welcomed family and friends, some who passed through once or twice and others who took up residence long enough to earn family status. However long their stay, I pray that here, they always felt welcome, safe and happy.  

It was in this house that I watched my son fall in love with my now daughter-in-law, in this house where I donned my wedding attire and from this nest, I watched him fly.  

It was in this house where my best friend and I somehow grew even closer amid the endless distractions of life with three children. And it is in our hearts we will pack the memories and hold the moments.  

It is in this house where I now sit and look around the empty rooms and — with such deep gratitude — remember eleven years of living and loving and learning. Who, I wonder, grew more? I hope in some way, each one of us stepped closer to the beings we were created to be. 

The Source of Light 

It was in this house that I prayed. As we lived and as we grew: in the hard times, in the good times and in-between. In all things — with earnest — I invited God in. And in the end, I realize, it was Him all along. He has been the light in this home. And the beautiful thing about light? It has a way of following you wherever you go.  

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Copyright 2025 Nicole Johnson
Images: Canva