On this cold morning, Camp Sterling feels distinctly like my grandparents’ house. There is far-flung family here, which means bacon crisping in the kitchen, and orange juice and tulips on the table. The halls are filled with the sound of long, hot showers being taken ward off the chill. Beds are deep with blankets and loosely made. Hair at the breakfast table resembles the crumpled sheets.
I have a glimpse of what this house was meant for, and the lives this house has held.
And this morning, I only feel joy. Our house is going to have another beautiful life.