Is a house really just a house? I have moved several times over the last two years... *shrug*... *sigh*.
And each house I have lived in I've seen full of furniture, pictures, clothes tossed on the floor, dog toys spread on the furniture, and all kinds of things a normal house would have. Each house has been homey, and I have loved each one for its unique traits.
But strangely enough, there is something I loved more about the houses, and that may be surprising.
When you've moved out the last of your stuff (and yes, it is just stuff) and you take that last walk through it, something about that moment is almost poetic.
The house is empty. Naked. Raw. Exposed.
And when you look intently you can see its bones.
In those moments when the sun is shining through its windows, and the dust flakes are dancing on air, those are the moments that make me take pause. And in those moments I realized this house wasn't part of my life. I was briefly part of its life
And, oh, the stories it would likely tell.
There is a difference between a house and a home. I do know the difference. A home should be filled with people, joy, laughter, family, and its never made of 2x4's.
But to be part of that house's story...that's a privilege.