where our feet can't touch
A week from tomorrow we will have a real home. A return address, a place for our pots and pans, where our shoes will be inevitably strewn haphazardly around despite our various attempts at keeping them neat. My husband's green thumb will ensure we have plants and lots of them, and I will put a candle in every room. Perhaps we will finally print our wedding pictures. We will rebuild a home, and walk with as much faith we can muster into the next stage of our lives. The summer is almost over, and the heat is welling up inside with anticipation. It is quiet now, as we play house in my parents' home while they are away; finally cooking what we want, not being cooped up in a room when we need alone time. There is space to breathe in every room, and goodness is this how it is for everyone else? Next Saturday has always felt forever away, but now it is next Saturday and we aren't sure what to do with all of this. This summer has drug us to the outskirts of our trust, forced ...