The Goat in the Bathroom

This goat hangs on my wall. My kitchen wall because the goat is not allowed in our bedroom.

But for you, the important thing is not the goat painting because let's be honest, that goat doesn't mean anything to you. The important thing is how I got the goat painting. And that my friends is a longer story.

It begins twelve years ago, when I receive an email from the family asking about joining our small group Bible study. The weird part was that family had just moved into the house they had bought from us as we moved into another house in town.

And that family became our friends. Middle Man found a kindred spirit in their oldest daughter. We were pregnant at the same time with our third and their second.

We moved away and they moved away. We moved again. And again. And eventually we ended up living about 4 1/2 hours apart. Thankfully.

She has four daughters. I have three sons.

So we meet in the middle. Just the two of us.

For almost three years now, we have set aside a weekend here and there to meet up in the middle between our two homes. Dubuque, Iowa has become our home together.

And in Dubuque there is a restaurant that we love. And in the restroom at the restaurant there is a goat painting that I love.

I cannot explain my love for this goat. It makes no sense and yet every time we eat there I see that goat and tell my friend how much I want that goat painting. Every single time. For the last couple of years.

And then this weekend, I found my own copy of the goat painting. Well actually, I found a cow painting that I liked. That I was thinking I might need to take home. But I wasn't sure. I liked it. A lot. But it wasn't the goat. It was similar. It was all the things I loved about the goat painting, except it wasn't the goat. I was trying to decide if I should settle for the cow painting I liked. And then I saw it - my goat canvas.

I hadn't seen it the first time I had walked through the store. I had taken a different route around the furniture, eyes drawn toward a lamp and then a shelf that turned my body away from where my goat hung. When I walked back by that area my eyes were drawn down, looking at a chair my friend had pointed out. I never saw the goat the first time through the store.

After texting back and forth with my husband about the cow painting, I walked back in to take one more look at the cow. To contemplate whether the cow painting that I liked was right. Or should I hold out for the goat, or one I loved as much as the goat/

And as my eyes looked across the room, I saw for the first time the goat canvas. Right where it had been hanging the whole time.

My goat painting.

My goat.

He hangs on my wall now. And he makes me so happy every time I walk by.

Not only because I love the painting. But also because I love the memories of the weekends I spend in Dubuque with my friend. And of the years I looked at that goat in the restaurant and was in love.

When we moved into this home almost three years ago, we made an agreement that we would only bring things into this house that we loved. We are slowly collecting pieces. Each with a story to tell. And if you ever visit, I would love to tell you the story behind the three monkeys or the day we bought the BE bookends or the photos that we hang of our adventures.