As I wander through my new (to me) home, slowly unpacking boxes, I keep swallowing hard. Since the day I lost Big House so many years ago, I’ve lived temporarily— knowing there would be further moving, further upheaval, further kitchens and closets, further schools… I’ve carried a box of my grandmother’s china from one coast to the other, never breaking the thin plastic packing tape keeping the precious dishes safe inside. More than many, I’m keenly aware of the sharp edges on the margins, of how tenuous life can be… particularly this past week, and I step softly through the rooms in a house I am now invited to consider my home.

Not a single room in the home is the same as it used to be- every single wall has been lovingly painted, and each paned window has been stripped of fussy draperies and box-valances, to be freshly dressed with simple iron curtain rods and pale cotton and linen curtains. The air is lighter, the sunlight cascades easily through the now open windows, and makes the warm wooden floors gleam. It’s more than I ever dared hope for…

The kids bounce and giggle on the trampoline in the backyard, and I can stand again at my kitchen window, hands covered in verbena-scented suds and watch them through the lacy pattern the giant oak leaves cast in the summer sun. One by one, I open the boxes of dishes and beloved kitchen tools; an old wooden recipe box from a great aunt, filled with treasured, yellowing handwritten recipes with directions like “use a medium hot oven…” I find a place in my kitchen, and open another. My mother’s antique clay bread-rising bowl is unpacked, safely transported thousands of miles now, and no worse for wear. The few cake stands that escaped the giant moving sale are removed from their bubble wrap, and join the recipe box on the shelf… and on it goes.

Every so often, my breath catches in my throat. I have to stop, squeeze back the tears, and remind myself that it’s okay to exhale. Unpacking those boxes is more than just moving my valued belongings into a structure. Unpacking, for me, is an exercise in faith.

Unpacking means faith in my new husband, and in my newly minted marriage. Unpacking means faith in the deeply good man who has opened his heart and life to me and my children.  Unpacking means faith that I won’t have to uproot my children yet again, and that they can make friends and establish patterns and call this new place home. Unpacking means faith in myself to manage a blended family where we can love and grow together. Unpacking means having faith that this is all real, and that it’s not a dream I will wake from, teary and steeped in sadness. Unpacking means being vulnerable.

Today, I am unpacking my grandma’s china. It’s the last box.