Goodbye, Little House

Dear Little House,

Soon, I will lock your door for the last time, and I just wanted to write you a letter to say goodbye.

I still remember the first time we opened your door. You had your quirks—you still do—but we fell in love with them. We overlooked your age and saw your timelessness. We wanted you for our very own. We were so excited when you were officially ours; you were and always will be our first. God provided so much for us and opened so many doors so that we could open yours, and He never stopped providing so that we could continue opening it for almost nine years.

You were always there for us, through thick and thin. When we had bad days at work, we always knew without question that you would be right where you always are, ready to be a haven from the chaotic world outside. You were there for us through the highs and the lows. Your walls witnessed the tears and arguments and laughter and through it all, you stood firm. You sheltered us during storms and kept us warm when it was freezing outside for weeks on end. Never once did you falter in your purpose or design, and for that we thank you.

There are so many memories tied up in your every nook and cranny. Little House, you were the first place we went after leaving the hospital with our newborn son. He learned to walk and talk inside you. Your walls have held his pictures, as well as the pictures of many happy times and bittersweet times with loved ones who are no longer with us. You are the only home he’s ever known. You were here for our friends to come and be safe from the outside world and its problems. Your walls listened to many a crisis that wasn’t ours, and you were always known as a safe place in many lives’ storms. You housed parties and family gatherings. We had many dinners with good friends inside you. Your front steps were the site of two "First Day of School" pictures.

Yes, there were times we complained about you, Little House—that you were too drafty in the winter, too hot in the summer, that you ate too much electricity, that you were old and falling apart, even that you were too little—but never once in eight years did we think of leaving you, only of improving you.

But now we have to say goodbye. We have to leave. No matter how much we want to, we can’t stay. You will still be ours on paper, but you will no longer be our home. Be good, Little House, to our friends who will live in you next and call you their home. Be everything and more to them that you were to us.

Thank you, Little House, for being ours. Thank you for letting us live inside your walls. Thank you for your strong roof that always kept us safe and dry, and your strong walls to keep out the wind, rain, and snow.

We will miss you, Little House. Thank you for being a part of our family.

With the utmost sincerity, 

The Strongs