Grace In Motion

My home is a good home.

It’s not new. She came up in the 80s, which means she has stories in the drywall and opinions in the plumbing. We’re the third family to love her, but we’re the ones who raised our kids inside these walls.

Back then, the paint didn’t just chip; it became a climbing gym for a seven-year-old Spider-Man who scaled the hallways and left heroic smudges of hands and feet in his wake.
At one point, our daughter, powered by teenage thunder, put a hole straight through a wall.

We hung art over it.
Because that is what parents with limited energy and unlimited love do.

The kids survived. We survived.
They grew up and moved out, like children do, and the house exhaled.

It’s quiet now.

The walls are patched and painted. We’ve upgraded, repaired, and freshened the bones. I surrendered my tiny office so the kitchen could breathe a little wider, and moved my desk to the loft, which I adore more than I expected. Real wood floors now stretch across what used to be carpet with a testimony. The porch is enclosed, giving us room for long dinners, open windows, and the kind of conversations that linger.

This house held our chaos and then handed us calm.

It is a good home.
I love it deeply. Nearly perfect. Nearly a dream house,

But just so we’re clear:

We still don’t have room for a horse.