It’s been just a week since I took the major step of unpacking the books. Our living room has one full wall of bookshelves that we have carted across the country and to the east coast of the USA and back to the prairies again. My books are my way of carrying home with me. Unpacking them and putting them back on the shelves signifies coming home in some sort of meaningful way for me, no matter our location.

Each book is associated with a memory, experience or time in my life journey. They remind me of good times and and comfort during all the different phases of my life. Yes, there are some books on the shelf I’m sometimes embarrassed to continue to put back there (*cough* Twilight series! *cough*). Some that remind me of my years of dogmatic religious legalism, some that remind me of projects I started and never finished or goals I have yet to accomplish, and some that just sit there, year after year, still unread.
But there are other books that hearken back to childhood and squirming around on the bottom bunk with my sisters while my mom read aloud. The books I read when I was expecting my first baby. The novels that have made me laugh and cry. The recipe books I use when I cook for my family. The biographical stories written by my Oma before she passed away. The textbooks from various university classes. The volumes that have shaped me and changed me and have been there along the way, part of who I am, like old friends. Letting any of them go feels like a betrayal of the worst kind. (My husband probably wishes I would get in the betraying mood a little more often – at least when it comes to books!)

We’re home, friends. For real now.




