My parents bought the chair when they were pregnant with me. Rocking makes my mom sick, so it’s a glider, with a little gliding ottoman to match. It started in my room, moved with us from house to house, always anchoring the corner of the nursery wherever we called home. Six babies my mom has rocked there, cuddled, nursed, sang to sleep. When we moved again, into what will most likely be my parent’s longterm home, there was no nursery for it to settle.
The chair got tucked into my parent’s room, in the corner by my mom’s bible study materials and laptop. She sits there every morning; we all find our way into that chair when we visit her room. It’s where we all started, and to sink into those brown cushions and send it gliding back and forth a few times feels like home. Over the course of our lives, every one of us have pinched our fingers in it at least once, curled up to read a book, sat on the ottoman to get a loose tooth pulled or itch cream rubbed on a mosquito bite and to talk to Mom while she rocked back and forth.
My aunt had a December baby, and she says she has a special attachment to their tree and lights now, ever since she spent so many nights watching them and feeding Lauren. I can’t help but think that the arrival of Christmas decorations will always be special to Lauren too, that as she grows, the lights will warm her heart a little bit more than the rest of us. They’re her lights, just like the chair is our chair.
So many moments in my life are like this, I’ve noticed. The tiny little details God has woven into my life, so seemingly minuscule that I’ve had to look hard to find them, to snatch them up, to hold them close. Summer days at the lake, running up from the lake sunsoaked and damp, to a feast of bbq chicken and corn on the cob and iceberg salad on the porch, everyone squished onto the picnic tables with the sun in our eyes and the sounds of the waves and the screen door sliding back and forth and peach cobbler for dessert. Setting up our tree and how the aroma from it fills the house, and needles poke through our socks as we make our way to the kitchen for endless helpings of my great grandma’s nutmeg cookies that taste like Christmas itself. Pancakes on Sunday mornings, and how I use the sound of frozen blueberries hitting the strainer as my signal to get out of bed each week. The side of the stage where Andy told me that he liked me, and the way my heart still speeds up and I can’t stop smiling when I walk through and just pause to soak it all up and remember.
As Andy and I have talked about our future family and I dream all those little dreams about motherhood and a baby of our own, one thing I’m looking forward to is slipping into that room, settling into that chair, to feed and rock and sing to my own little one. It feels so complete, to have begun there, cradled close to my momma’s heart, and to be able to do the same to my own son or daughter. It feels so right.
It feels like coming home.