Once a year, Mama made banana pudding. She cheated (her words) and used a mix for the pudding, but she whipped up meringue from scratch out of egg whites, sugar, and a tiny bit of cream of tartar. She topped the pudding with the meringue in a clear glass bowl after making it look pretty by carefully placing vanilla wafers and banana slices down the sides. The stiff peaks on the meringue were browned in the oven, just the right color, and she set it out on the kitchen table to cool.

Waiting until she said it was cool enough to eat felt like torture. Tiny beads of condensation would form on the sides of the meringue, and the house would be filled with the smells of sugar, banana, and vanilla. My brother and I would take turns sneaking a quick taste by tearing off a peak or two. Mama had to watch us closely around the banana pudding.

She only made banana pudding when the Wizard of Oz came on TV. I wish she were still here to ask why on that day, during that movie!

On Sundays, Poppy would take my brother and me to visit my Uncle Phil’s store. My brother and I would get Icees (mine, cola flavored, my brother, cherry), and Pop would buy a wedge of cheese to take home, cut from a giant cheese wheel that sat under a glass dome.

One Sunday, Pop bought me a pair of toy plastic ruby-red shoes from a small wall display of toys. Poppy always had a soft spot for his little girl.

They were beautiful. I pretended I was Dorothy, dancing down the yellow brick road.

I loved the part in the Wizard of Oz where she clicked her heels together three times and said, “There’s no place like home,” and she suddenly was back home. I cried because even as a little girl, I knew home was the best place to be.

Full disclosure, I did not like the flying monkeys. I cried then because they were scary, and I didn’t want to be where they were.

Anne Graham Lotz, Billy Graham’s daughter, wrote that her parents always left the outdoor porch light on for their children, even after they were grown and flown. They never had to knock; despite having their own homes, it still felt like…their home.

I have lived in my little house for nearly 20 years, but it never truly felt like my home. It’s two miles from my parents’ house, and I spent more waking hours there than at my own place.

When my Poppy passed away, I took care of Mama as best I could. The day of her funeral, I came back to their home and sat outside in the carport, still in my funeral clothes with Georgia red clay stuck to the heels of my shoes. Mama and I had often sat there, in two folding chairs, drinking wine and laughing.

I could still walk into their house without knocking, but there was no one there.

My husband Mark and I are squatters—though not the kind that sneak into empty houses and refuse to leave. A friend of mine had a whole family fraudulently move into her unoccupied home that was for sale. It took months and several local news stories to get them evicted. It was never their home, and they left a huge mess behind.

We are squatters in my parents’ old house, which belongs to my brother Ronnie and sister-in-law Melinda. My parents lived there for 41 years, and Melinda’s parents lived there for the past two years until they passed away.

Mark and I began renovating the house a few months ago before moving in. Mark (as always!) did the heavy lifting, which included rebuilding the deck, adding a staircase, creating a fire pit, replacing the back door, installing new flooring, windows, and roofing, adding insulation, and replacing the stove, dishwasher, microwave, and refrigerator. He also made some cosmetic updates, such as installing a fireplace mantel, hanging pictures, replacing doorknobs, and repairing trim work.

We both worked on landscaping and cleaning. And organizing. And cleaning. And deciding what was trash and what was treasure.

The first step was sorting through numerous boxes of belongings. Mama kept every piece of paper, carefully stored in folders. Four decades’ worth, plus the years they were married before my brother and I were born.

Every paycheck stub, every tax return, every photo, essays I wrote in high school and college, awards and honors my brother won, all neatly packed away. I found Pop’s wallet, with an ancient Olan Mills photo of me in the window where his driver’s license should be—Daddy’s little girl. I found Mama’s purse, which she fiercely guarded and kept close by at all times. As she progressed in her dementia, she constantly worried about her treasures in there: some Cherry Blossom Festival pins, a few golf tees, and a lot of tissues.

So many treasures that mean nothing to anyone else, but everything to me.

I also found a receipt for $1 included with a tax return. Did I mention my brother is a CPA? He has a lot of patience, especially with family members, hopefully, even with family members who are (temporary, I promise!) squatters.

My main job, besides packing everything inside our old home, was to get this house ready so we could move in.

It was relatively clean, but any house that’s been lived in for 45 years needs a thorough cleaning.

Mark suggested we hire a cleaner.

I agreed, but kept procrastinating on making the arrangements. It didn’t feel right. It seemed too… intimate. I wanted to clean my Mama’s house myself.

I am glad I did. So many memories in the walls of this house.

I began by wiping down the top kitchen cabinets, and in the process, I remembered how loud they were when the doors were closed. They still are.

I sat on the floor with a washrag in one hand and a scrub brush in the other, wiping the bottom cabinets. Under the kitchen sink, there were two dirty spots, maybe a foot apart, on the bottom edge of the countertop. I started scrubbing, wondering what could have caused those marks.

In the last years of her life, Mama would let go of her walker, turn her palms up, and steady herself by grabbing the sink’s countertop. Her physical therapist would often scold her, telling her she needed to do her balance exercises. She said she would, but she never did, and eventually was unable to.

Mama’s fingertips.

I looked over at the bottom of the counter on the other side of the kitchen. There are two different spots, a little further apart.

As Pop got older, his knees wore down and he had trouble standing and walking. He used a rolling office chair at the kitchen table instead of a regular chair. To reach the toaster oven, stove, or refrigerator, he would roll over to the counter, turn his palms up, and grasp the bottom of the counter to pull himself over.

Right where these spots are. Pop’s fingertips.

They are still here. Everywhere.

They aren’t really here. But they are at home. Their real home now, and our real home someday, is Heaven.

Jesus left His fingerprints here, too. Everywhere. In the flowers that die in the fall and rise again in the spring, and in the stars in the sky.

Jesus said in John 14:2-3:
“In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.”

Mark and I are closing on Mama and Poppy’s home next week. It will be our earthly home until I can finally introduce Mark to them…and finally meet the One who is building our forever home.

“There’s no place like home…”

And if you don’t know Him yet, get alone and talk to Him. He loves you more than you can ever imagine and is patiently waiting for you.

He never forgot us. And He never forgot you either.