Empty Houses

For the last three nights in the Lighthouse, my roommates and I dragged our mattresses onto the empty carpet that used to be Lindsey’s side of the room. Those final nights were devoted to an unspoken ritual of chick flicks, snuggling, bed-heads and sleepy morning coffee. As much as we giggled over our silly and sappy ritual, we soberly understood that we only had a few more days in our gradually emptying Lighthouse, and we savored these evenings on the floor.

As the Lighthouse move-out date got closer, our home got emptier. The tangible parts of our community were slowly disappearing, and my heart ached each time I walked through our back door. 

Somehow, the days surrounding graduation felt full and empty at the same time.

Our beloved Lighthouse overflowed with boxes and garage-sale piles, cleaning supplies and refrigerated left-overs. Our living room was full of chik-fil-a cups and spontaneous dance parties, uninhibited laughter and memorable storytelling. It wasn't until we started packing our lives away that we realized how much we carried with us and how it had knit us together. Our sense of nostalgia began to swell to maximum capacity, and we felt more present now that our moments together were coming to a close. 

We eventually turned in the keys to an empty house that, only moments ago, billowed with laughter and connected us with people. Our fullness crescendoed into emptiness. We moved out and moved on. We moved to new towns, grieving the loss of a community. We unlocked the doors to new, strange houses painfully devoid of memories. New houses. Empty houses.

In these moments of departure and transition, nostalgia can swell to an overwhelming capacity. It's difficult to leave the fruitful memories and approach a blank slate. The emptiness is exhausting. It takes time to fill up an empty house with furniture, memories, and mornings that feel safe. Who wants to start all over again? It's scary to walk into an empty house with remnants of dishes that aren't yours or broken spatulas left in the forgotten corners of squeaky drawers. All that’s left for us who come after are the nail holes and the stains on the carpet where maybe this house, too, once bustled with life.

The fullness and emptiness of transitions lead to both rejoicing and grief. What an overwhelming combination.

I’m tired of walking into empty houses. I’m tired of the prospect of “home” feeling so far away. In the past month, I’ve walked from one empty house to the next, with my trunk acting as a temporary closet and heavy boxes stacked in the hallway acting as toe stubbing magnets.