Houses Aren't the Home

I was born in Nigeria but I spent 12 of my growing up years in Kansas. I am in Kansas as I write this blog. I try to visit twice a year so that I can see my father who lives in the skilled nursing center of his retirement community. Bryan came with me and, of course, I had to give him a tour of the three homes in which I lived in Kansas.

When I was less than two my family returned to the United States from Nigeria. My father was extremely ill and not expected to live. Fortunately, he pulled through and we moved to McPherson, Kansas. My grandfather was the president of McPherson College at the time and we were poor waifs with a sick father. We moved into the basement of the "President's House." I called it the "Chocolate House" and that has been our family's name for this home ever since. My mother taught school and my father stayed home to recover and take care of me (his only child not yet in school). He said it was the hardest work he ever did. My sister, brother and I shared the one bedroom in the basement and my parents slept in the basement living room.

I drove by this house yesterday. As a child I thought it was a mansion. It had a room just for watching TV, after all. But when I showed this impressive home to Bryan, it didn't look that large at all.

When my father was well enough to hold a job he taught religion classes at the college. My parents bought their first home. I shared a bedroom in the basement with my sister. Some things never change. I started started school in McPherson.

I gave Bryan the tour past the McPherson Church of the Brethren, which sits right next to McPherson College. The college has a dorm named after my grandfather and so, of course, I had to show that to Bryan. Then past the first home my parents owned. I remember when cement was poured in the backyard for a porch and we all put our handprints in it. It has been 45 years since I lived in that house and I thought my handprints might still be in the cement. Silly me.

When I was ready for first grade my father decided he wanted to become a pastor. We moved 30 miles to Hutchinson, Kansas. "Hutch" to the locals. We moved into the church parsonage in a new housing development, not too far from the church. Sycamore trees in the front yard were still relatively young. I counted once that there were 32 children living on our street. We played hide-and-go-seek, tag, and kick the can most nights...until it got dark. I shared a bedroom with my sister. Some things never change.

Hutch was a thriving place to live when I was a child. Now it looks like a city on its way to becoming a ghost town. We drove past my elementary school and then discovered that my junior high no longer exists. We stopped at the Hutchinson Church of the Brethren and then past the parsonage. The sycamore trees in front of the home in Hutch were a bit taller.

How removed I feel from these growing up years. These houses seem so small and look so different from the homes I remember. I remember enough space, lots of love and family time. I guess a house can't continue to convey the living that goes on inside.