Today's post was written by my dear friend, Katie Jo Otte. I love her reflections about "home," and the ways it changes over the years. What comes to mind when you think of "Home?" How has it changed over the years?
Home
by Katie Jo Otte
For
about twenty years, home was a two story farmhouse in the midst of the most
trees you will find in most of Central Illinois. It was dirt and bugs, hay sweat and sunsets,
crafts, dress up clothes, stuffed animals, and two loving parents who made
themselves available to support whatever I set my stubborn mind to doing. Home was two church families and knowing all
the “neighbors” for miles around. Home
was a Methodist church full of neighbors, with a dove in the domed ceiling, sun
shining through stained glass as my brother and I proudly carried the light in
and out for the candles, gaining confidence singing with my choir buddies, and
an old pipe organ that rang through the beautiful sanctuary and beyond. It was a dimly lit but beautiful Lutheran
church with “old ladies” who watched me grow and old men whose joy was
contagious. I did a lot of learning and
growing, laughing and serving in two damp church basements that felt like
home. Home was also being involved in just
about everything the community offered, many of which my parents helped
facilitate; 4-H, Girl Scouts, LWML, church, choir, cantata, plus most
non-athletic (and even some athletic) activities possible at the school. School never really felt like home, but about
5th grade, I found another home.
East Bay Camp, and later Girl Scout Camp Peairs, became homes, as
well. They were places I could test
myself and push my boundaries, in atmospheres of support and perceived safety,
despite risk.
In high school, I found home in the
choir room and on a beautiful wooden stage.
I found home driving in with “little brothers” at 6:00AM for Madrigal
practice. Home was a heavy, old, “wine
and smoke” colored, velvet dress, two of my mentor altos wore for Madrigals
before me. For a while, I found home at
a boyfriend’s house, where he and his grandparents made sure I was fed, despite
my hesitancy to eat. I found home at a
Bible Church youth group, with people to listen and embrace me in my
“existential angst.” I found home
strumming my guitar and asking deep questions of a youth pastor who always made
time for us.
I tried to return to my camp home,
after high school, but there was no longer a place for me. Home went South, to a sweet director with a
Southern drawl, some good old country boys, and my first experience with (lots
of) ticks. Hot and sweaty, crawling with
ticks, twisted ankle, fast convertible rides, plentiful deer, camper insults,
camper triumphs, facing fears, pushing boundaries, all became my new home. Those good old boys, along with the rest of
the staff, became my family for the summer, and oh, what a summer it was. One of those good old boys became the man who
would define my “home” for the rest of our lives.
It took
me a while to find home in college. I
found it at an old friend’s house, after he drove me out in the country, where
the tightness in my chest relaxed, and I could breathe, again. I found home in his family’s generously
welcoming me, and feeding me, whenever I needed… and I still do. I found home with an atheist roommate who
listened to me read the Bible and struggle.
Eventually, I found home at Wittenberg Lutheran Center, as I had dreamed
I would. It took a new Vicar and his
wife, who became my protectors, comforters, and confidants, as they did for all
of us. I found home, with them, then, as
I do whenever I go back.
My good old Indiana boy convinced
me to make my home at a different camp, the next summer. Our summer at Lakeview was rocky for me
personally, and for our relationship. I
had some run ins with injuries, conflicts, and disappointment. I also made some great friends and finally
learned to ride a bike! My camp home migrated, again, after this summer, from
trying something new, and because there wasn’t a place for me, anymore, once
again. It was a painful time of growth,
for me. Sometimes home is like that. Camp Peairs was home for a summer of physical
and emotional growth, getting Lifeguard certified and obtaining the title
“Safety Luna” while gaining confidence playing and testing myself “in the
wild”.
The next summer, Luke came home on
leave to start building our home together.
We were married June 5, 2010 at the church we hoped we would be able to
call home, some day. We started putting
down roots at White Creek, knowing they would have to hold long distance, if at
all.
Home in the military is where you
make it. In the best of times, home is
where you can be together. You make
friends, you make connections, you find ways of being “you” wherever you
are. Home in the military meant driving
out to New Jersey, the week after our wedding, with just what we could fit in
an old Jetta with no air conditioning.
It meant staying in a hotel and doing my first married cooking in a
microwave with a big Pyrex measuring cup we dug out of the back of the
car. We home searched, then, driving
around, checking to make sure base housing and temporary lodging were really
not options for us… Looking at neighborhoods
for the first time and wondering about the “for sale” signs and the commitments
that would come with them. Thankfully,
it meant taking a break, getting to a “random” Lutheran church “accidentally”
an hour early for the service, and meeting a sweet couple who had recently
downsized… and were looking for a family
to rent their beautiful home at a price that was a steal for the area. It meant long nights awake, alone, waiting
for Luke to get off of 16+ hour shifts, so we could finally sleep together in
our home. I slowly got to know a bit of
the neighborhood, timidly, as I had no vehicle, and had to walk wherever I
explored, knowing Luke wouldn’t be home for hours. We kept the house boiling in one of the
hottest summers locals could remember and 50-55 degrees in an extra cold
winter, with electric heat, and some of the highest electric bills I could
imagine. Home is finding family where
you are. We got involved in that little,
old, Lutheran church, Rose of Sharon.
The organist, and her husband, our landlords, became our best
friends. We were mistaken for mother and
daughter, multiple times, but we told people we were “soul sisters…” the truest
term we could find to define our friendship, mentorship, relationship. They welcomed us into their church, the
choir, their Bible studies, and both of their homes. We had a home there, for a while.
Before long, though, home meant hearing his
voice or seeing his writing when I was in my original home back in Illinois,
while student teaching and his deployment to Qatar. It meant getting into a strange new normal in
a place that had always been my normal.
I was home under my parents’ roof, but the head of my married household
was halfway across the country, then halfway across the world. It was lovely to be home, but it was a
complicated balance for all of us. I was
back in my home churches, where they prayed for my husband with “those serving
our country,” and I was so proud. I
melded right back into many of my community roles, almost as if I had never
left... I even went back to my home
camp, East Bay. It was good to be back,
but so much of me changed when I became a wife.
Some of that home was better and more secure than ever, but oh, how I
missed him.
After deployment, we hoped home
would be that big two story house we moved out of, when Luke deployed. It was not to be. Though the friendship remained, we had to
find a new place to stay. Home became an
experience of base housing with friends we vaguely knew. …and then knew better and better… Some days we knew each other better than any
of us wanted, but home remained with them.
We participated in parties more enjoyable than what we imagined we
missed at college age (him in the military, already, me studying too hard and
too conscientious to party, anyway). We
had campfires, community friends, my first roughing it camping trip, ballerina
time, shared meals, lots of weed whacking, intense workouts, cat sitting,
creative possession stacking, Christmas light hanging, and much more. Again, home was a complicated balance, as two
young married couples each tried to develop the dynamics of head of household
and submission while sometimes stepping on each others’ toes, and still
remaining friends. Home also became a
new church community, Holy Cross Lutheran, unlike any Missouri Synod church I
had experienced. Challenges and
opportunities galore met us, there. I
was still dependent on Luke to drive me anywhere farther than the work I biked
to over the summer. We shared in helping
with youth group, providing meals to the hungry, singing and doing sound for
praise band, lots of drama and feelings, and some wonderful friendships. Home at Holy Cross looked like Pastor’s
family taking us in for Christmas and his wife providing me a personal retreat
when Luke was TDY to Africa over our second anniversary. It looked like support, even when my presence
made waves. It looked like a family
taking us out for the most expensive meal I had ever had before Christmas Eve
service, because they had military family and wanted to make us feel at
home. Home was also the sweet “senior
members” I talked to about Hymns, who reminded me of my LWML ladies growing
up.
Home was the draw that helped Luke
sign separation papers from the military.
There was a house, and a job, and family waiting back home in Indiana. Home was full of promises, for Luke, and I
committed to follow him. This homecoming
was not what we had hoped. Things fell
through, moved out of range, changed direction, when we showed up. The physical home he had dreamed of, that was
promised to us, was unavailable at the time. Thankfully, his parents welcomed us into their
spacious, woodsy home, which smelled of lavender laundry and wood smoke. Home became a treacherous tightrope walk of living
with his boss/father. Though they had
generous good intentions, it was all too much to balance and for too long. Home was briefly a summer of lake living,
where I got to kayak to work at camp, but outside stress and conflicts almost
beat the life out of our marriage.
A new home in this place meant new
church membership. We began attending
the church in which we said our marriage vows, the church we always intended to
come back to. We met new family at St.
John’s White Creek. I finally met the
Pastor’s wife I had read so much from, whose children’s names I had memorized,
as I tried to learn their personalities from words on a screen. She opened her home to me… to many women and
families. She taught through words and
actions, with Grace. We studied God’s
word, talked about things we could not, elsewhere, cared for each other and
each others’ children in the midst of the coffee and chaos of Bible study and
Thursday mornings that often turned into Thursday afternoons… I learned preschoolers are actually
interesting. She was one of the first to
hear when our family was growing. I got
to experience chasing a toddler while pregnant with my first. Though they are at another home, now, that
parsonage and that family will always hold fond memories of one of the places I
first brought Jimmy home.
About that dream we were waiting
for… the cozy farm house with the
beautiful trees and inviting barn… It
was more than we bargained for. We
planned our first overnight visit for the day I took my first pregnancy
test. The home wasn’t ready to move in,
but we wanted to anchor this memory in the home where we hoped to raise our
children. We were scared. We were elated. It was 90+ degrees, the air
conditioning did not work, we had no fans, and I was nauseous before the wood
roach crawled across my leg. At about 3
in the morning I convinced Luke we had to go back to his folks’ house. After months of nausea, work, stress, and
expense, for both the owners and ourselves, we moved January 2, 2014. I was 5 months pregnant. Remember those New Jersey electric bills? They paled in comparison to our new winter
bills.
A property that has been unoccupied for over 20 years has more needs than an outsider can imagine. More than that, a property full of multiple people’s dreams and memories holds more blessings and obligations than I can describe. We had a 90+ year old man visit and cry telling me how he wished he could show his momma what we did with the place. We had three sisters visit at different times and share their stories. There were tears over memories of time spent at the kitchen table, just looking at and imagining where it was. We heard from another brother and sister of their memories, as well. Pride, joy, regret, hope… life happened here for so many, in so many different ways. Surprisingly, we all had so much in common, despite the changes that have happened in the physical building and property through the years. We heard stories of God’s faithfulness, as parents prayed for returned health for a dying child (the 90+ year old about 80 years earlier), listened to children saying prayers, taught them to embrace family and hard work… It made the place even more dear to our hearts… Another positive pregnancy test, another baby brought home, fed here, kept safe and loved, here, and this home will always hold a place in our hearts. The tears, laughter, prayers, memories and lessons will always be a part of this house, but we are learning they, and we, cannot stay here.
As I learned with camps, God is not
limited by location. Before this world
had form, and long after these walls, these trees, this ground has passed away,
He says, “I AM.”
We are looking for a new Earthly
home. The path is unclear. We have hit some road blocks, just as we were
building up speed. We pray God directs
us and puts a “hard stop” in the way of anything not according to His
will. Sometimes answered prayer can be
disappointing, in the moment. We pray
for continued trust His knowledge and goodness, which are not limited by time,
space, finances, or human understanding.
