"I know they say you can't go home again
I just had to come back one last time."
For me, there are two places that hold those powerful, primal, body memories. I've been blessed to be able to visit them again. Both of those places come to mind when I hear this song, The House That Built Me
, sung by Miranda Lambert, and written by Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin. I cried the first time I heard the song, gut-wrenching, from the heart, weeping. As I continued to hear it on the radio and learn the words, I started to sing along - but choked literally as I started to cry again. The song is as powerful as the places that all of us look for home.One of my two favorite home places is the house my dad and his mother grew up in, in Brazil, Indiana. There is magic there - history that flows through my veins and is in my bones as surely as the genetic history my grandmother and dad passed on to me.
It broke my heart when my grandparents made the decision to sell the old homestead. I wish that I could have found a way to buy it myself, to keep it in our family. It just wasn't practical, or really even possible. The good thing is, that I've been there often enough that it lives in my memory. If I close my eyes, I can still almost smell the smells, feel the air, sense the thunderstorms coming in the distance, see the sunrise, hear the echoes of the stories told to me about the house, its history, who lived there, where they came from, what they did, what my dad did there...
"Ma'am, I know you don't know me from Adam
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine."
Dad and his brothers helped Grandpa dig the basement in that old house. I don't know if there are hand prints there anywhere; no one ever pointed them out, if there are. I haven't had the chance to spend as much time at my mom's parents' home, but I remember whenever we visited, that I had the same call home.
"Up those stairs in that little back bedroom
Is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar"
The other place that really resonates with me is our old home in Colorado, where I did learn to play guitar, and piano, as well. A white ranch house perched on top of a hill, about 30 miles south of Denver, in a subdivision called Whispering Pines in Franktown. The town had fewer than 1,000 residents in 2002, and I know it had grown tremendously after we left in the mid-70's. Four acres of brush, trees, room to run and play, garden, pony, horse, dogs and cats, it was a child's paradise, especially a child that loved to be in the country as much as I did. I gave my parents fits often by taking off early in the morning, before anyone was up, to ride my pony on the dirt roads of our "neighborhood." I don't think I've known such freedom and love of life at home as I did in Franktown.
As I left childhood, I coincidentally left that treasured place at the same time. Years later, I remember driving out there with friends and my brother, Tim, to take a look at the old place. It was much the same, and yet different. I seem to remember the new owners being gracious enough to let us take a look inside.
"If I could just come in, I swear I'll leave
Won't take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me."
There are broken places that form inside of us later, that sometimes we think can be healed by reuniting with those special places. And I think some of them do heal by those pilgrimages. I remember feeling like I came home that visit; and again in 1990 when I drove by again (not bothering the owners this time). There is a healing and re-energy that comes, and even though we don't want to leave, somehow it's okay to do so.
"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it's like I'm someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself"
I think we can find, rediscover, ourselves. It helps sometimes to being able to touch and feel those sacred places, to help us along that journey, but it's not always necessary. They are like shortcuts, a cosmic secret passageway to our authentic selves.
Today I can look back in my mind, breathe, remember the smell and feel of those places, and remember all the good that was present there, and in me. Home is a metaphor for what we're seeking - it's the home inside of us that these places help us find our way back to. A secret passageway to the spiritual house that built us - and is still within us. May we all find it easier to come back home, without the need for that physical crutch. But bless the crutches that help us find our way again, until we can do it on our own.
