The Third Floor

These times we find ourselves in are unlike any other. I find solace in knowing that this world is not our home. And when this life weighs heavy on my chest, I breathe in the peace of which He alone provides.

These months have been a blur. While the pace of life has slowed for many, I’ve been thrown off kilter, spun like a top turning in too many directions. I’ve sought comfort in both distraction and substance but never falter to right myself again in the mercies of a new tomorrow.

Months pass like weeks and weeks like days, minutes to seconds. And I think to myself with each new dawn: If this was my last day on earth, would I want to be doing anything other than what I’m doing right now? And the answer is,

No.

Despite it all, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing and no other place I’d rather be. I know not everyone can say that with such assurance but my hope is that someday they can, whoever they may be.

Maybe that’s you.

Though it’s difficult loving the parts that have brought us pain, it’s in our weakness that we are made strong (2 Corinthians 12:9-10). And hopefully, through this collective hardship, we may catch a glimpse of a new direction we can take, somewhere we’ve always hoped to go.

My mentality is shifting by the swiftness of these days. I constantly remind myself; dreams are made in the now. There is no such thing as someday. It’s cultivating the courage it takes to step out into the unknown, which consequently gives permission for others to do so as well. My aim is nothing more than to shine a small light into this dark world and offer in outstretched hands, the beauty that I see & the hope that resides in my heart.

I’ve settled on the notion that this house, this home, that we’re restoring has nudged me into the depths of obsession. My favorite moments are spent turning our vision into reality, no matter how tiresome that can be. I’ve said out loud too many times to Gavin, I’m tired of working on this house, I’m just worn out. Then tomorrow comes, and we’re at it again. Simultaneously, I’m learning that in both relationship & life, it’s easier to call it quits. However, that never really solves the problem. There are roots that run deep to all of life’s hardships, and true living comes from looking at them honestly & working through the very things we’d rather not face and the hard work we’d rather not do.

When we move forward, however slowly, what a rewarding feeling that can bring.

Who knows when we’ll ever be given the moment to right our wrongs and say what needs said and do what needs done. Time is such a fickle thing. It’s here today and gone tomorrow. I feel like I’ve lived many different lives already, my childhood feels like a distant memory from someone else’s past. But this house pulls me back and reminds me of my younger years.

Let’s take a step back in time for a moment, into what used to be. . .

The first old, wooden step chirps when you begin your accent. There are a total of 33 steps leading up to the third floor from downstairs in the dining room. The thin railing wobbles like a loose tooth as you slide your hand up the banister. My grandmother always stated with admiration, “Imagine families walking up and down these very steps while the Civil War was taking place.” And she’s right, this home has seen so many days come and go. So many pages of history have been written since the building of these bricks.

The third floor was a forbidden area of the house to us grandchildren. However, painted faintly in my memory, are snippets of recollection. When the adults were distracted downstairs, usually in the kitchen, we’d make a plan to explore the hidden depths that await us, the unknown territory of above. Dodging the cold scowl of Webster and tiptoeing down the darkened hallway, we’d approach the staircase and look up into the blackness before us. Who would be brave enough to take the climb?

Time stood still as each step brought us spine-chillingly closer to what lied above. . . dead bodies, monsters? The childhood imagination ran wild with fearful excitement. Only the brave took witness to the crowded spaces with two routes to choose from once arriving at the landing.

Turning to the right was my dad’s childhood room, making a left was my uncle’s. Straight ahead, a closet brimming with boxes, books and collectibles. Usually around the time that little eyes adjusted to the darkness and clammy hands would start to explore the remnants waiting to be found, there’d be the shuddering sound of an adult bellowing one of our names.

“Go, GO!” we’d say pushing one another as quietly & quickly as we could through the maze and back down, praying the last step didn’t give way to its foretelling squeak. Once out of the darkness, we looked upon each other victoriously. We had made it to the top.

Summer of 2017, my cousins, Emily & David and I began the initial clean-out of the third floor. Who knew years later as young adults, we’d make that climb again together, and this time, seeing it in the light of day and with no objection. It wasn’t as terrifying as it seemed years ago, though I wouldn’t enjoy being up there alone, if we’re being honest. A faint eeriness still lingers among those walls.

We started in my dad’s old room. Stacked floor to ceiling were books, magazines, old toys, board games and littered empty walnuts and squirrel-chewed candy wrappers. The air was stuffy and hot, animal scent baked in the room. We entertained ourselves by pushing bulging black trash bags through the small window, watching them fall to the ground below. David had the unfortunate job of hefting them into the cart and wheeling them down to the dumpster. As of today, there’s been a total of 64,500 pounds removed from the house.

One heavy cart-full at a time.

That room was rarely thought of after that day of the initial clean-out. Nothing more than a passing thought to “someday” when we’d get around to it. Countless other projects have taken the forefront.

Now, nearly three years later, we return.

To be continued . . .