PLACE

      In a sleepy neighborhood in Tualatin at the end of a cul-de-sac, rests a warm yellow Cape Cod style home.  It was built in 1987 and the original owners still live there; a husband and wife who raised their two daughters there. Although it is in need of a few minor repairs, it is well kept and taken care of. The lawn is always mowed and there are fresh flowers in the planters on the front porch. Cape Cod homes where originally designed to withstand the notoriously stormy east coast weather. The roof has a steep pitch to allow the high winds to blow right by and the heavy rain to quickly fall to the ground. The end gables on either side of the house are like book ends to the roof, seemingly keeping it all together and safe. The black wooden shutters serve to protect the windows during the storms. While not on the east coast this home serves as a refuge to all those in need of a safe place to rest from the storms of life. 

     I was invited to dinner, to spend late afternoon and evening with the family.  This invite came at a time when what I needed most was a family to love me, good food and a safe place to rest, if just for the night.  I was very newly sober-again. I was suicidal, a practicing self-harmer, and to top it off an insomniac. Being alone was a dangerous place for me. Being in a warm loving home with people was what I needed but not what I thought I wanted. I didn’t want to have to need anything. I had been in survival mode for so long my exterior was rough and tough.  “I didn’t need any one!”  I would say to myself. But the truth was I was an oozing ball of fear; afraid to be alone, afraid to be with people.

     I was greeted at the door with smiles and hugs. I stiffened up, tense and skeptical. They said things like “so glad you are here” and “we love you” It was too hard to believe. The smell of the garlic bread in the oven and the spaghetti sauce in the crock pot filled my nose instantly. My stomach growled right away, I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten a hot meal, rehab food doesn’t count.

I slipped my shoes off and took my first step into what I would later crave six days a week.  Sundays can’t come fast enough. The carpet was thick and soft, like stepping into a pair of sheep’s wool slippers. Somehow I knew I was safe.  One step in and I knew some amazing facts.  I won’t drink alcohol here. I won’t hurt myself here. I am safe here. The armor I have to wear out in the world to keep from falling prey to destruction can be taken off and left at the door to pick up later. Like a knight who returns home from battle, fighting for his king, can take his armor off, safe in the castle.

The noise of the family finally penetrated my thoughts. I continued inside, going from the front room into the heart of the home, the kitchen. It is a long room, maybe ten feet wide by thirty feet long. On one end by the entrance is a long rectangle table with a bench on one side and two black wicker captain chairs on the other. The table is in great shape but I could see that it had been used and loved well.  I imagined lots of family dinners had been taken there; lots of conversations about school and boys and God; two parents guiding their two daughters.  The counter tops in the kitchen are made of granite tiles, a speckling of grey and white contrasted by the black cupboards.  On them sat chocolate chip cookies still on the cookie sheet cooling. Spaghetti noodles where cooking on the stove and I heard the laughter of the two adult daughters and the older ones husband.  Still young but adults, so completely obvious they loved and even more importantly liked each other. They too welcomed me with hugs and warm greetings. It felt sincere and yet hard to believe.

The opposite end of the kitchen opened up into the “back room” as they called it. A family room with two couches exactly the same, a black armoire housing the television and stereo equipment, and a gas fire place. The fire place was on and the glow was as warm as the heat it created.  The room has what feels like hundreds of large floor to ceiling windows.  More accurately, there are windows on all three outside walls, tall, and with no window treatments so all the light from outside pours in. The floor through the kitchen and backroom is hard wood and strategically placed area rugs run throughout. The color of the wood floor is golden and creamy.  The sun streaming in through the hundreds of windows add to the warmth of the floor, to the entire room.

Before I knew it I had a glass of ice water in hand and was offered a seat on one of the softest couches I have ever sunk into. I have grown to cherish my place on this couch.  It is a place I feel safe and secure. I sit week after week in awe of my acceptance there. I often sit quietly and just listen to all the conversations, the loving teasing and serious conversations about life and God. I take it all in hoping to soak enough of it in to last until next week, but I never can.  I always am empty by the following Sunday and come running like a man having spent days in the hot dry desert sun running to a well. I participate too, I get teased and we all laugh together and it feels like the afterglow of Christmas, satisfied with gifts and good food. The gifts here are heart gifts, ones you can’t buy and you can’t ever give away because the more you give the more you get. 

The family has grown since my first visit; there is a new little one.  She adds noise, love, and laughter and is my new favorite family member.  I often whisper in her ear how blessed we both are to be on this couch, in this family.