I think the heater just turned on.

It’s the third night in the new house, and somehow it’s already started to feel like home. It isn’t because the boxes are unpacked (they’re not) or because we’re getting decorations up (we aren’t) or even because we’ve arranged the furniture in the right way (we have no idea).

It’s just comfortable.

Home.

Last night at our church small group we (briefly) discussed the question of whether or not there is one perfect person for everybody. We didn’t come to a conclusion, except that you should follow the lead of the Holy Spirit, but it made me think.

It sounds silly, but if there were perfect houses for people, this would be ours.

From the moment I saw pictures of it online I knew it was perfect. For us. The colors, the style, the location, the neighborhood. (Not the price.)

And it still feels right.

First nights (and second and third nights) in new houses are always uncomfortable. When I was 11 and had just moved to PA, I spent half of the first night upstairs worrying that my dad had forgotten to lock the front door, and the last half downstairs sleeping in the room across the hall from my parents’. In NY I went to bed with boxes surrounding me and disliking the new house immensely. And after moving again, I listened to the new old house creaking and wondered if it had been the right thing.

But this house was meant for us, and these past few nights have been peaceful. No worry, no uncertainty, no strange creaking.

I don’t know which lights go with which light switches yet, but I know I will learn. I’ll get used to the shower being in a different orientation than I’m used to, and I’ll get used to the silverware being next to the fridge instead of the stove. There are lots of little things.

But the big things? Are comfortable.

I think it’s because it was meant to be.