Moving in with my parents at 33 caused just a little apprehension. (It was more the stigma of single 30-somethings mooching from their parents than anything) I realized today, however, that I have been given a great gift. Let me paint a picture. It’s New Year’s Day as I sit in the ‘Pine Box’. (The Pine Box is my parent’s attic that is now my home. It has a low ceiling and slanted sides paneled with pine boards from floor to ceiling). Sitting here my senses are engaged all around. There is the intermittent squeak of the woodstove door as my dad stokes the fire. My mom is listening to records (yes records), specifically the Gaither Trio; the muffled sound of tight southern gospel harmonies wafts up through the floor boards. The wind is gusting across the open field that is my parent’s yard and bends the stand of white pines across the road. It whispers through the cracked window (open due to the constant high temperature in the Pine Box). There is an occasional car on the dirt road and jealous whimper of one of my parent’s labs at the front door, dejected because the other is outside. The sun is just peeking out from the clouds sending long shadows of the pole barn out across the dull brown grass and patches of stubborn snow that refused to melt during yesterday’s unseasonably warm temperatures. All are subtle, soothing sights and sounds that make this moment one to remember. This is a drastic contrast from life in downtown Columbia with the din of traffic and sirens from the hospital and police station both within a block or two. You might say the moment I’ve just described is about as raucous as it gets around here.
It is a fairly short-term situation and the circumstances that brought me here aren’t ideal. Of course no one wants a parent to go through cancer treatment. Yet today I endeavored to start the New Year with a right perspective on this situation, that it is a gift. It’s a gift in the time I have with my family. It’s a gift to be able to help in their time of need. It’s a gift in finding the extra time to read, journal, and pray a busy schedule doesn’t normally allow for. It’s a gift in being back where I’m rooted; we are after all situated in the hayfield of my grandparent’s farm. The gables of the old farmhouse and barn are visible from the front door. The scene from the back door is the plot of land that was once my grandfather’s vegetable garden. Sentimentality being a family trait, the house is filled with familiar objects that bring a deep sense of comfort and belonging. This is home. This is a gift.
I am under no illusions, however. There are bound to be moments of frustration when an adult child moves in with his parents. Take for example, last night. Due to heavy fog and black ice, I was informed that I “could not” go the New Year’s Eve party I was supposed to attend. Imagine that. These old roles are indeed changeless. Though it was huge gulp of humble pie, I swallowed my pride and stayed home. It just wasn’t worth the argument and worry it would cause them. My sixty-something parents aren’t likely to change; better I bend a little while I’m still young and at least a little flexible. A few Sam Adam’s and a couple of Taiwanese movies in the Pine Box, I actually rather enjoyed my evening of solitude.
So I will savor this gift, but I will also steal away pretty often for some high speed internet and time with friends….if my dad lets me, that is.