Every time I throw away you take a piece of me with you... with apologies to Paul Young

Moving house has proved emotional in every sense. Leaving our home of over fifteen years and the familiar routine we have established there. Leaving the street and the people we have come to know there. Leaving the locale of the church building where you feel involved in all that is going on. Leaving the organised chaos of the old house for the disorganised chaos of the new.

Of course there is an 'upside' to this: a bigger house (on which see the BLOG Thou shalt not covet - forthcoming); more parking space; no urgent requests to, for example, provide IT or other support to sundry church meetings, unblock a toilet or counsel someone in distress; no homeless persons as yet - though we have supplied contact details to our most regular visitor etc etc.

The hardest thing, as implied by the title, is to relive and then relinquish so many happy memories, not least those associated with our four children.

This has been Lizzie and Joe's only home and Martha's and James's since they were two and six months respectively. James's and Joe's room still has the original decorations complete with Winnie the Pooh transfers hidden behind the bunk beds.





Through the soon to be demolished landing window it is possible to view the garden where they have spent so many happy hours, particularly before PS3 and wet summers.



Behind every now abandoned radiator and under every now removed sofa lies the fossilised evidence of what has been transacted in this home. Missiles and small toy soldiers abandoned on the battlefield. Crucial bits of Lego long searched for and items of play jewellery that once enthralled. Scooby Do birthday badges and felt tipped pens and much else besides.

Finally, hardest of all, there are the items that have to be consigned to the bin or charity shop. Yesterday, I lingered long over an Action Man watch tower James and I had made about six or seven years ago from an Amazon box and sticks collected from Abney. Should it be kept for posterity like so much else that fills our garage or should it be skipped? With a lump in my throat I opted for the latter.



What does all this mean? It means that we are mortal and that for all of us time is available in a strictly limited quantity. Intimations of this are naturally painful. It means that we are strangers in this world and long for a home that is permanent and from which we will never be asked to leave. Why not read the Letter to the Hebrews and you'll understand?