It’s been one year. One year since I walked through the door of my Grandparent’s legacy home in Traverse City for the last time. One year since our family had to sign it away to a new family. One year since a chapter I had known my entire life was closed. To say my heart was devastated would be an understatement. Their home meant everything to me. It’s the place we would spend playing in the woods as children, waking up on Christmas morning to a fresh snowfall and enjoying the elaborate breakfasts my grandma would make. It was the place I ran to when life got hard. A place of peace, core memories, and many life changes. A place I always knew I wasn’t just welcomed. It was a place I knew that I was wanted.
I remember walking up the steps to the door and opening it to the warm embrace of my grandmother. She would hug me so tight, cup my face in her delicate hands, and tell me how good it was to see me. There was almost always something cooking on the stove or a dinner in the oven. Grandpa would give me the best back scratches and we would watch episode after episode of Family Feud from 1970 something on the Gameshow Network. The memories I hold of this place feel like a dream, one I know I will never be able to relive. I know that nothing can ever replace what has been lost. But time moves on. And we must move with it… Taking our memories and carrying them like lessons in our minds, teaching us as we walk the paths set before us.
When I think about my Grandparent’s house nestled in the woods, the smell of coffee wafting through the air, and the rustling of the leaves in the wind, I feel the scale of all the emotions that have been imprinted on me because of it. My mind is filled with the goodness and beauty of this place, but the greatest memories of it are related to its purpose. It’s a purpose I couldn’t explain as a child, but it’s one I can feel in my core as an adult. Their home wasn’t the most beautifully decorated place you’d ever seen. It wasn’t luxurious, expensive, or showy. It was filled with a love that could never be matched by the materialism of today’s world. It wasn’t designed to be a showroom or a magazine cover. It was designed with the heart of family in mind. Its purpose was to be filled with laughter, to play games with grandma until 2am, and eat the homemade delights that were cooked every evening. It was meant to share cups of coffee and have deep, fulfilling conversations about our lives. It was meant to be a place where we would be seen and cherished every time we walked through the door. It was meant to go deeper than the surface. It was meant for a purpose.
I think about my home today. And the homes of others around me. I see the Instagram reels, the Pinterest boards, the AI styled spaces… I stop and stare at them, waste my time comparing my home to it all, and proceed to feel like a failure. I scratch my head and wonder, why can’t my home ever fit that model? What am I doing wrong? And after wallowing in the imperfections of my home, I am reminded of something more valuable than any magazine photo could convey. There is no purpose in the perfect Instagram home without the love that resides in its walls. Immacutlately decorated walls with no joy, no laugher, and no love isn’t all that desirable.
I would rather sit in my grandparent’s 1987 home and enjoy a cup of coffee any day of the week than to spend any length of time in a perfectly polished showroom devoid of genuine connection. The love I felt in their home made their “outdated” style some of the most beautiful in the world to me. And when I drove down that tree-lined driveway for the last time, you can believe that my car was filled to the brim with items I loved and would use to decorate my own home with. Stylish or not, I see these pieces spread throughout my home. And I smile. I remember. I rejoice that I am blessed to have a part of their special place with me now. And I hope they would be proud.
Home is a feeling. Home has a purpose, even when your kitchen counters are from 1987 and your carpets haven’t been updated in decades. I’ve been in incredibly beautiful homes that felt empty and lifeless. I’ve been in some “average” homes that feel like a cashmere blanket on a chilly autumn morning. What’s the difference? The love and purpose you provide to it.
The day I drove away from my Grandparent’s home for the last time, I remember the absolute emptiness I felt in my heart. The grief was overwhelming. I gave my one last honk as I turned the corner of their wooded property (a family tradition) and felt the pain of knowing I would never call this place my home away from home ever again. But I had a choice to make. What do I want for my own home? What is the purpose I want to give to it? What do I want its legacy to be? Their home will never be our family home again, but I can choose to live in their legacy. I can choose to carry on the beautiful path that they began. I will never be perfect at it; I don’t know that I will ever fully emanate that same feeling the way they did. But I sure plan to try. Their legacy is worth repeating. It’s worth sharing. It’s worth pursuing. Pursuing your home’s purpose is a gift that will keep on giving all your days. And that, my friends, is beautiful thing.
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