We returned to Houston on the 29th to find that our AC was broken. Oh well. We were too exhausted to care at that point. The following day we completed our packing and cleaned the house. We boxed up all of our belongings and moved them into the front room. That night we stayed at various friends' houses or at hotels so we wouldn't have to endure another night in the heat of our house.
We got to the house the next morning to find everything trashed. Our house had been broken into. On our last night. The irony of the situation was incredible. Throughout the year I had prepared myself for something like this to take place. Time and time again, I was pleasantly surprised. The house was empty for 3 weeks over Christmas break and nothing happened. It was empty again for a week over spring break and nothing happened. Everything was fine while we were gone for retreat.
Our last night. Things were stolen, and the house we had spent so much time cleaning up was a chaotic mess. It wasn't my favourite way of saying goodbye to the neighborhood.
In a way, however, it was oddly freeing. After all, the things they stole were only things.
They could not steal our friendships.
They could not steal our memories.
They could not steal the lessons we learned.
They could not steal our laughter.
They could not steal our tears.
They could not steal our celebrations.
They could not steal our love.