Home.

Nearly seventy years ago, my grandpa built his house from the ground up. There were no contractors or hired labor, just his hands, his sweat, and his will. There was nothing spectacular about this house—no swimming pools or walk-in showers; no heated floors or granite countertops. It was a simple, quaint house—something in which both he and my grandma took a great deal of pride.I remember they had a small, beautiful yard with thick grass and fragrant lilac bushes. My grandma created a little rock garden where she grew many intriguing and beautiful plants, flowers, and cactus. They had a wonderful garden as well. One time when I was just a wee little guy, I asked my grandma for a bowl so that I could “help” pick every single unripened tomato (you should have seen my grandpa’s face). It was a great place—one that I was happy to visit, especially when I got to spend the night (or even a few days). Every morning, I’d have grandma’s pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse or Pac-Man. I can still taste them.

It wasn’t the house itself that I looked forward to, but who lived within that house. My grandma is arguably one of the most amazing women I have met (you’d agree if you know her). She was the heart of that house, and she made it a home. She made sure that love wafted all throughout, and it did—it even spilled out beyond the doors.

They don’t live there anymore. My grandpa has since passed on and my grandma moved to live near my parents. She has a new house. And though it’s not quite the same for me as the one I grew up with, her love still permeates every square inch.

My sister recently took a trip back to that old town and decided to drive by grandma’s old home. It was devastating. The yard was dead. The lilac bushes were gone. Trees were missing and the rock garden contained nothing but weeds. The paint that I remember my grandpa faithfully touching up every few years was nearly gone and the roof looked as though it had been through two tornadoes and a hailstorm. It definitely wasn’t grandma’s house. It wasn’t the home that we so fondly remembered. I saw my sister’s photos and my heart sank. I grieved for that house for a number of days, but I soon realized something very important that was much stronger than that grief.

That house lives in my heart. Not the house in the pictures, but the place where the grass is always green, the plants are in full bloom, and the pancakes are always piping hot. Grandma is laughing, singing funny songs and telling stories and Grandpa is grilling hamburgers on his charcoal grill. It doesn’t matter what it looks like today; that home will live on forever. The then is more powerful than the now. Sure, I am disappointed to see all of their hard work be neglected and treated so disrespectfully, but it’s no longer their house. They moved on. Home was never really the house itself, but what lived inside. I can mourn what no longer is, or I can celebrate that which was. And it was beautiful.

Life carries on. It sometimes doesn’t take the turns we expect or hope, and the reality of today can threaten to overshadow the memory of yesterday. But wallowing in loss and mourning what used to be robs us of the joy in celebrating the very same things. It impairs us from embracing the good things in our present. It prevents us from making new good memories. Times change. People leave. Acknowledging the loss of something (or especially someone) is important, but keeping company with it is unhealthy.

Sorrow momentarily for yesterday, but then focus on all of the brilliantly special memories held dear to you in your heart. Home is where the heart is.

* Please share this post to encourage those who might be stuck pining for “the good ol’ days” and instead are missing out on today.