The Four Times I Moved Back to My Parent's House

My parent’s house

The first time was a year after college. I graduated with grand aspirations of adulting through a full-time job and a cool apartment in the city. I got everything I wished for and realized I didn’t want any of it. My soul longed for mountains, slow mornings, and a new way of understanding God—a sharp contrast from the church community I was then a part of. Moving back into my parents’ house with all sorts of baggage, I took a year to sleep nine hours a night, hike every afternoon, learn about contemplative prayer, waitress at a local restaurant, and figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Then, I went to seminary. 

The second time was after seminary. This time, I didn’t return alone. I brought a fiancé. He started his Ph.D. while I once again figured out what I wanted to do next. Where once I found my parents’ large house and garden healing, I now found it demanding. There was always too much cleaning and gardening to do and not enough hours in the day. I desperately wanted to settle into my very own place, just him and me—a small, adorable newly wed nest that was well-decorated, easier to manage, and where I didn’t track dirt into the house whenever I walked in the front yard. In the meantime, we got married at the house.

Our wedding reception at my parent’s house

We moved into that envisioned apartment shortly thereafter. 

This photo of our newly wed nest was taken in 2011, shortly after our wedding. It was an adorable apartment with hardwood floors and a fireplace on a tree-lined road.

The third time was after we got kicked out of said apartment. After four glorious years of living there, the landlord wanted to renovate and sell the property. We needed a transitional space before I began full-time ministry at a church. My parents and I shared our agendas for the day over breakfast each morning. I thought this would be the last time moving back in because I was to be ordained soon—a true mark of adulthood!

The fourth time was after five years of full-time ministry. I was tired because I was balancing church work and two kids. My heart became numb to requests from ill congregants wanting visitations because I was sleep-deprived and emotionally drained. Prior to parenthood, I would have listened to the lengthy stories of homeless individuals who came through my church seeking financial assistance. Now, I quickly dismissed them to the nearest social service agency. And forget about friends who needed rides to the airport.

There was also a tug. A tug from a book that’s been pestering me to write it for years. I finally turned to the nagging voice and said, Alright. I give you my attention. How can we make this work? How can I honor you?

My parents opened their doors yet another time to not just me but the four of us. And like so many years ago, the expansive garden, cool tile floors, onlooking mountains, became a place for me to rest and give birth to a new dream.

The dirt and burweeds I track into the house no longer bother me. They are joyful reminders of this sabbatical I’m so fortunate to take.

My children now also get to enjoy the property as my son throws rocks in the pond and builds sand castles next to the cucumber patch. My daughter stares at the interesting creatures who visit the property each day, from the gopher sticking his head out of the ground to the rabbits who eat the all of our vegetables. And every morning, I get to write. I get to write without worrying about the emails I need to respond to and that ever growing list of church tasks. 

Left: I wear lots of linen these days. Right: My son makes sand castles on the farm with his grandpa.

You may now be wondering: What’s your parent’s house about? More on that in next week’s post. A hint, it’s sorta like a modern-day monastery.