Tonight, our apartment is full of boxes. Our drawers are empty, our bookcases are clear, and our closets are bare. Tomorrow, we are moving to a new place in a different town and leaving our first apartment behind.
I always told Mitchell I didn't want to live in Watertown, so, naturally, we ended up living in Watertown. Having lived there as long as I could remember, I felt it was time for me to move on to a larger, more sophisticated town, preferably one with a Target or at least one nice restaurant where we could have date nights. About six weeks before our wedding, however, I realized that, since the only firm plan we had for the fall was Mitchell's student teaching in Watertown, we had better plan to live in Watertown.
But with three weeks to go before we got married, we still hadn't found an apartment. Because we had no renting history and no idea what kind of income we could expect in the fall, our options were woefully limited.
When we mentioned to our Sunday school class that we were still looking for a place to live, a lady in the class suggested we call her brother-in-law, who had an upper apartment that had been vacant for months. From the moment we stepped inside that last Sunday afternoon in June, we knew we had found the right place. With its low ceilings, it felt like a hobbit hole, the perfect size for two people under 5'6". And it was furnished and it was the least expensive place we'd looked at. Two days later, we signed our lease.
It didn't take long to move in; we didn't have much stuff. We owned a coffee table, a bookcase, a chair, a bed frame, and a dresser––all gifts or hand-me-downs. But thanks to my bridal shower and the wedding gifts that trickled in over the course of our first month or so of marriage, we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted, too.
Nearly all of those lovely things are packed away now, awaiting their new home. The apartment looks strange without them, and it feels even stranger to know this is my last night in the place where we spent our first two years as newlyweds.
I am bad at change but excellent at nostalgia. This last week memories have been drifting in and out of my mind, reminding me of all the moments we have spent in our hobbit hole. After our wedding reception, we slow-danced in the living room to "Extraordinary Magic" by Ben Rector, and I cried on the couch when we opened our cards. The next morning, we ate cold rehearsal dinner pizza at the kitchen table before embarking on our honeymoon. For our first real dinner in the apartment, I made pasta with fresh green beans. After we had been married for a month, Mitchell bought me a vanity so I wouldn't have to stand in front of the mirror on our bedroom wall to do my makeup. Today we found that mirror tucked in one of our closets; I had forgotten about it.
I remember Mitchell jamming to Panic! at the Disco while washing dishes, trying to make his most hated chore bearable. I remember hanging our floral shower curtain and being amazed at how much cheerier the room seemed with it up. I remember finding Mitchell asleep on the laminate floor in front of the AC unit in our kitchen window one night. I remember rearranging our living room one Wednesday because he was curious. I remember bringing home the first piece of furniture we had purchased together: an IKEA desk, which did not have a desk chair until nearly a full year later. I remember putting our futon mattress on the floor so we could watch The Office, eat pizza, and fall asleep at 7:30 one Friday night.
Ironically, I began to realize that I no longer hated living in Watertown. It became almost comforting to be in a place where I knew what was going on and felt known myself. Nothing makes you feel like you belong somewhere quite like the guy at your favorite pizza place grabbing your order for you as soon as you walk in, even though there's a line. And now, just as I have come to love where I live, we are leaving.
"We've had a good run in this place," Mitchell told me tonight as we finished packing up the spare room. And we have. Like all first apartments, it has had its quirks––no overhead lighting, a smoke detector that goes off at the first whiff of hot oil. But there has been so much to love as well: the hutch big enough to store my pots and pans, the beautiful sink installed a few months into our tenancy, the huge shelves built into our closet. As far as first apartments go, we can't imagine a better place to have begun our life together.
I am not looking forward to loading up the moving truck or locking the door behind me for the last time. But it will be good to have a dishwasher. And laundry facilities. And a three-minute commute for Mitchell instead of a thirty-minute one. I will learn the layout of our new city and figure out where to put all my stuff. We will probably buy more furniture. And we will look back fondly on this little hobbit hole of an apartment, this place that has been a tangible reminder of God's many gifts to us and of the perfect timing of His provision. We are grateful to have stayed. We are grateful to be moving on.