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| Not the actual house or property |
In Central Indiana, in the center of a cornfield sits a house. I remember so clearly driving up to it with my sweetheart to meet the realtor; a whopping 5.1 miles from my home and 1.5 miles from my work.
My own house, which I bought alone, had been home for me and my daughter for years now. I loved the idea of marrying this man, but the one thing I hated was the idea of leaving my home. It meant/means the world to me and to my girl. My little cinder block house of 1830 square feet is in the middle of town It has a white vinyl picket fence, a giant deck out back, and two front doors with wooden screen doors. The doors bang when someone enters or exits and is music to my ears; transporting me to a simpler time.
We talked about him moving in here once we married, but then there was his stuff. A motorcycle, car, truck, side by side, and tools out the wazoo. As much as I hated to admit it, it wouldn't work for us.
We looked at several houses together. One didn't have enough space for all his stuff, another had plenty of space with a giant pole barn, but I vetoed the house because it was tight inside and I had no idea where I would put my grandmother's china cabinet. He sure had fun telling my son I wouldn't let him get a house with a giant pole barn in jest.
Then we found "it!"
A white quintessential farmhouse with black shutters. There was a giant garage for his stuff and was located on an acre of land where he would add his own building for the rest of his gear he needed for work. My friend's family even owned the surrounding farmland!
It had a cedar fence and a swing in a tree in the front yard for all of our grandkids. It met his qualifications. Me, I loved the giant front porch and 3 front doors. That's right- 3; even though the one in the living room didn't really open because of the carpet. The doors, especially the one that entered the kitchen/dining room area even banged when it closed. Music to my ear. I'm pretty sure I squealed when I heard the bang. He just smiled.
Inside there was character everywhere. I like old houses because of their charm and their quirks are part of what draw me; they make it real and a home. Just like a person's quirks makes them endearing. There was a kitchen I was pretty sure would require step stools for the rest of my life. I wasn't a giant fan of how high up the cabinets or even the fact there wasn't a ton of cabinet and counter space, but I could handle it. There was a rectangular hole in the wall between the dining room/ kitchen area and the living room. He joked it was for me to throw him biscuits. We stood there and talked about where the office would be and where we would put my grandmother's china cabinet
The house had strange floors. Down a step into the bedroom. Up a step from the bedroom to the bathroom. Up a step into the laundry room. Up another one into the kitchen. Not a step really; just different floor levels. Character I thought; although it didn't feel like character when I missed a level and sprawled onto the floor like a baseball player sliding into home.
Upstairs were two bedrooms and a 'bonus room'. Tall windows everywhere with innate wooden trim. A cellar basement that had the same old musty smell of my grandparents. We had found it. A place that worked for both of us.
"Sarah can pick out whichever room she wants to be her room. She gets first pick; besides the master of course." he said.
He put in an offer, but to our dismay it wasn't accepted. I was a little bummed since it seemed 'perfect', but trusted that there must be something better.
A few weeks later we were driving home from a vacation together in New Orleans when the phone rang and it was the realtor. The people who had gotten the house had backed out and there was a decision to be made. It didn't take long before he was giving instructions to the realtor to put together another deal; we got it; he got it. This was going to be our first home as a married couple.
Before moving day, we brought my daughter over to the house and he had her pick out her bedroom. She chose the room with the largest closet right over the kitchen of course. Really she would have most of the upstairs. While she despised the idea of leaving our home she rolled with the punches and gave him a Happy Meal toy as a joke housewarming gift. He proudly displayed it in the windowsill in the kitchen. They really loved one another. I think of everything that I fell in love with in him that was what I loved the most; the way the two of them loved each other.
We were set. He had the carpets shampooed and we chose the office space downstairs. I claimed the closet in the office as a prayer closet. He put a chair in there for me and a beautiful scripture that was perfect and personal on the wall as the start to my prayer closet. I ordered the cutest address stamp from Etsy with only his last name on it. I didn't include a first name because it was to be the address of both our names with the shared last name.
The next few months meant a lot of memories. He kept encouraging me to decorate as I wanted. I told him I would when I moved in. I needed to immerse myself in a place before decorating. I did, however, change the bathroom mirror to a white one I liked better and I already had at my house, changed the bathroom fixtures to the farmhouse white and galvanized, added a new shower curtain, and brought over some of my collector coffee cups to display on the odd shelves in the kitchen/dining area.We picked out the hot tub and silly him and had me choose the lid color. Little things.
I had visions for the big things. The shutters being painted IU Crimson Red instead of black and a porch swing on the front porch. Not yet I told myself.
Instead, I gave him a sign I had bought for my porch but couldn't figure out how to hang it on my cinder blocks that said 'Welcome to Our Porch' and a gorgeous wind chime for his birthday with a message scrawled inside it about listening to the sound of the chimes on our porch as we grew old(er) together. It's the best I could do. I was struggling inside with leaving my home and I wasn't ready to pour into this one. Silly. I know.
A few months later, Sept. 2, 2022 to be exact, I left work on a Friday afternoon and went over to 'the house' and everything changed. There was a blue truck leaving the driveway when I was going to pull into it. In fact, I had to wait for her to turn left before I could turn left myself. I knew who it was.
"Was that (fill in ex wife's name)?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied with a slight catch in his voice. "She called and wanted to talk. She wanted to apologize for things. There wasn't any hanky-panky or anything like that going on. I had her come here because I knew anyone could drive by. You could come by."
It was a 1-2 sucker punch. My trauma went back to when my ex had his girlfriend in our house and acted like it was nothing. The scab of that wound ripped open and acid poured into it. It's happening again!
Breathe, Misty I told myself. Don't run. You love this man. Listen.
But the walls came crumbling down!
A little over a week later he went away to figure out his brain and his confusion. When he returned still confused and having emailed me, that's right emailed me that he couldn't marry me in this state of mind, I insisted he take the ring off my finger. He had met with her again behind my back.
"You put it on. You take it off." I told him.
I loved this man though, even if it was over. I begged him to take his time and please don't move her into the house right away.
"It's just a house," he replied. Just a house.
Just. There was that word again.
A cutting word often wielded like a sword disguised a a butter knife. Justifying disregard for another. Attempting to give justification and absolution to the perpetrator for the wounds of the victim.
Just a house. A house that in about 78 days was going to be our marital home. The house where I had told him I wanted to spend our wedding night there before we jetted off to Puerto Rico for our honeymoon the next day. I wanted our marriage to start here in this house. The house we chose together.
The very next day day; that house, the quintessential farmhouse became her address. She was the one using the address stamp for her mail, not me.
I wish I had the restraint to not care about it and take alternative routes so I never saw it, but I don't, at least not yet. I still torture myself. I don't mean to and I sure as heck wish I didn't, but I do. Ten months later and they are still there. Engaged now. It still hurts.
There is a flagpole in the front yard that wasn't there before. It was in the plans for us. He even commented he was going to fly a Navy flag for me too since I am a Navy Veteran. No Navy flag flies.
Instead, there are cute little yellow and aqua flower pots out front by the 'orchard'. I like her color choices. I still would have gone with IU red through. There is a red, white, and blue bunting on the front fence and a sign draped along that says Trump 2020.
I remember the first time I saw the Trump 2020 flag displayed. I wanted to scream out the window; get a calendar. It's 2023. I could get Trump 2024 if that is your choice, but 2020. That was 3 freaking years ago. It's almost time for another election. Stop living in the past. Damn it.
There it was.
The message in the freaking Trump flag.
Same verse I have on my phone when my ex husband calls.
Isaiah 43:18-19
"Forget the former things; do not dwell in the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland."
I'm trying to forget former things. I'm trying to leave behind memories from playing with the grands to ones too personal for publication from this house in the middle of the cornfield that has become my haunted house.
I think so often we read forget the former things as forget the bad, but for me it isn't the bad that has me stuck. The betrayal is real and the anger goes from mild to cataclysmic and I'm not going to deny that, but it's the good ones that makes the snot roll down my face.
Forget the former things, Mis... do not dwell in the past.
I understand how they arrived where 'they' did even though I wish they would have figured it out before a dear man she was dating and myself became collateral damage. They couldn't, or at least didn't, forget the former things and not dwell in the past. I even learned she announced to a family member she was going to get him back before she drove up to the farmhouse on that September day. Living right in the middle of the past!
Staying in the past keeps a person from seeing the beauty in front of them. It glamorizes the things that need to be gone. It makes us think things were better in Egypt and makes us want to be like the dog that returns to its vomit. There is a reason it is in the past; good and bad. Looking in the past can make us see mirages we see as desert oasis too; painting a picture that doesn't exist while we die from heat exhaustion. The present and future; that is where there are streams in the wasteland. I'm trying to be gentle with myself and I am so grateful for those who have stuck by me. They are streams in the wasteland. People who love me; even people who were brought into my life through this dark time. Real streams, not mirages.
Get a damn calendar Misty. I remind myself. It's not 2020 anymore and it isn't 2022 either.
Forget the former things, do not dwell in the past. See, GOD IS doing a new thing. Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it? HE is making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. God is JUST. He's got you!
There is that word again.
JUST.
This time a healing word.
A balm to the wounds carelessly inflicted by others.
I exhale and try to rest assured knowing God is JUST and needs no justification.
Justice has a name; ELOHIM
The very healing water himself. The stream.
And I rip off the proverbial calendar for today's date and look forward. Thanking God for July 6, 2023.
