Years ago, when I got my first apartment, my aunt sent me a card with a passage from Proverbs: “By wisdom, a house is built; through understanding, it is established; through knowledge, its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.” Though I’ve moved many times since then, I have often revisited this little prayer of what it takes to create a home. Now, I share it with my daughter.
On move-in day, Abigail stacked the dishes in the narrow cabinet but had to leave the crockpot on the counter. The hallway rug was just the right length, and by some miracle, the desk fit beside the closet of her tiny bedroom. After months of searching, hopes raised, dashed and raised again, she is settled in her first apartment—a third floor walk-up in New York City.
After securing a job just after graduation last spring and commuting for hours each day to the city, Abigail was more than ready to make the move. The decision was easier than the search, however, as each apartment she and her roommate saw was snatched up quickly by someone else. Selfishly, I wanted her home with us a little longer but also knew the time had come for her to test that independence we had instilled in her. As she searched realtor sites in the evenings after work, I petitioned St. Joseph, praying: “May this new home be welcoming (and safe), peaceful (and clean) and have good neighbors and relations between everyone. Fill this home with the love of Jesus. Amen.” The “safe” and “clean” insertions were my addons, and as a mother, I couldn’t help but plead to Mary for her intercession as well. My child was moving, creating a home in another city without me, and I would miss her. Nothing could change that.
And move she did. Close to work and friends, the place they found wasn’t perfect—with a drippy faucet and a drafty window— but the two of them set out to turn this blank, physical space into one of belonging. It wouldn’t be an overnight task, for a living space does not equal a home. I tried to help with that, creating a care package with her favorite chocolates and scented soap. Every Irish dwelling should have a St. Brigid’s cross, so that went in as well, along with a bottle of holy water, a mini succulent, a collection of family recipes and boxes of herbal tea. My husband was more practical, giving her a toolbox, like my father did for me when I moved to my first apartment. It still sits on the top shelf of our hall closet, collecting dust and reminding me of my dad. Nothing could change that either.
As we unpacked the boxes and assembled the table and chairs, this little New York apartment started looking like it was Abigail’s, due in part to that toolbox my husband filled, as much with love and concern for his oldest child as with a hammer and nails. A few days later, Abigail sent photos: the succulent sitting by an open window, the table with placemats ready for dinner and the St. Brigid’s cross above the doorway, thanks to her boyfriend and his handy step stool. Her rooms were filling with treasures, rare and beautiful, as mine once did; knowledge and wisdom waited by the door. As it should, her new life was beginning, one with the love of friends and the foundation of faith from which she grew over the years.
Even if she doesn’t come home—to Connecticut—next weekend as she promised, that’s ok. She will return soon enough. Home is with her anyway, even miles away.
(Emily Clark can be reached at [email protected].).
