I wrote this in my journal after Thanksgiving with my family last night, right before I went to sleep.
I believe few places exist more inherently comfortable than a grandmother’s house.
This has been true, at least for me, for as long as I can remember.
Things are in order here.
People always come first at my grandma’s, it never fails. No one ever gets overlooked or unloved, and everyone is family.
I really feel seen at my grandma’s. You know what I mean, what it feels like to be seen, not just looked at?
Sure, it’s not perfect, and there are some relational things I wish were different and I pray someday will be, but there is always love and always peace abiding here.
I never go hungry, and I’m always comfortable. I can rest when I want to rest, and do when I want to do. I’m not forced to be or do any more than I choose.
It’s a neutral state, my grandma’s, similar to the “wood between the worlds” in C.S. Lewis’s book The Magician’s Nephew. Time doesn’t pass too quickly, and if I lay down for too long I will most certainly sleep for hours.
But this grandfather clock above my head is questionable. Why did she put this in here? Why is it right above the couch? I might have a dull ticking noise in my head for a week.