As I write this, I’m sitting in the car, riding home from a week at the beach. Of course, by the time you read this, I will have arrived at home, typed this up, and posted it. But I wanted to go ahead and write a new post before I got home, especially since its contents have been going through my head all week.
When I was younger, I was a homebody. There was nowhere I’d rather be than in my own house and in my own bed. My mom used to say, “Put Anna in her own bed, and all is right in her world.” That wasn’t 100% true, but it was pretty close. Don’t get me wrong, I still love being at home and in my own bed, but I’m figuring out what my own definition of “home” really is. These days, home isn’t that old house with the big backyard and high ceilings. No, home for me is wherever Dad, Mom, my sisters, and I are all together. If I were at my house but no one was there, for example, I wouldn’t really be home. This means that, even though I wasn’t at my house this past week, I was still home. Likewise, I was home at a seafood restaurant, on the beach, and on a bike ride. This may or may not make much sense to you, because it’s something I’ve decided on my own, and it took me a while to realize.
This fall, one of the people who satisfies my definition of “home” will move six hours away. Will I only be at home when she’s not away at college? For a while, I honestly may feel that way, but I know it’s not true. As a family, my “home” shares something very special: love. It’s a kind of love that may be stretched very thin at times, but at the end of the day, it’s still hanging around. Even if a piece of it is far away, in reality we’re still deeply connected.
So in summary, when I’m with people I love who love me strongly in return, I’m home. And I just so happen to have been blessed with a family I can call “home.”
“Love never fails…” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:8.