There’s the story I have heard quite a bit from the majority of people I know. It goes something like this: “I was born in this state, in this town, and I grew up in the house. I took my first steps in this house, and on the wall, there are markings of my height that kept track of how I grew throughout the years. I celebrated all of my birthdays here. My best friend lives down the street and we’ve known each other since we were three years old. This is my home, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
It’s a beautiful story really, but it was never mine. I often found myself feeling envious of the people who grew up in one area, never having to move, and all the memories they had made in that one special place that they’ll always call home.
I have moved over twenty times in my life. I’ve lived in different states, cities, and towns, and many many different houses. People ask me where I’m from and I never really know how to answer. I am from everywhere.
Usually, we lived in a place for about two years and then we would move for one reason or another. It’s hard to pack up and leave your friends behind. Some moves were easier than others.
In this life we are just passing through really, so why not explore? Why not travel? I’m so grateful for all the places I’ve had the opportunity of seeing. Those places will always have a part of me.
But, I never really knew what a “home” was.
Is it a house? Is it a town or a state? A country? A church?
What I’ve come to realize is that it’s so much more than that.
I find it in the little things, the things that don’t seem like a big deal, but looking back, they’re the things that make life such a beautiful gift.
Home is random dance parties in the living room on a Wednesday afternoon, It’s sitting in the backyard in the middle of summer around a fire pit, roasting marshmallows, and talking about how beautiful the stars are on a clear night.
Home is hearing my little sister laugh as she’s chased around the house by one of her crazy brothers.
It’s falling asleep to the sound of the rain softly pounding on the roof, bare feet in the kitchen, and listening to my brother playing his guitar.
It’s popcorn-filled movie nights with my family, my dad reading the Bible to us, coffee dates with my mom, late night Wal-Mart runs with my goofy brothers, and teaching my little sisters how to make brownies.
Home was the place I wanted to go after a long day of work at one of my mediocre minimum wage jobs. Most of the time it’s the place I’d rather stay than going to a loud social gathering. It’s the place I long for when I feel lost.
It’s the place where I’m never afraid to be fully myself.
To me, home is not merely four walls and a bunch of meaningless objects. It’s where I feel safe and secure. It’s the everyday moments, nostalgic memories, and the feeling of belonging.
I find it in the people I love. The ones who are right next to me, and ones who are hundreds of miles away.
Home is wherever Yahweh leads me. He has been with me through every single journey (literally and metaphorically). So, no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I always have a home in Him.
Home is where the heart is, and as cheesy and clichè as that sounds, it’s so very true.
|| “Sometimes home has a heartbeat.” -Beau Taplin ||