Home

{African violets on the kitchen windowsill feels like home}

When people say "home" they may be referring to the place where they feel most at ease.  Most accepted.  Where they can be their silliest, their moodiest, their best, and their worst and still feel completely loved.  In this case, my "home" is found in Tony, Sophia, and Vincent.  For with these three I can be exactly who I am.

Other times people use "home" to refer to four walls, a foundation, and a roof overhead.  A place you drive to everyday at the end of your work day.  A dwelling to pour your creative energy and monetary resources into in order to make it yours.  If this is your meaning then my "home" is found in a small cottage in a quaint neighborhood.  A Pinocchio mask made by an Italian puppeteer hangs on the wall and my children's artwork adorns the walls of the dining and laundry rooms.  The couch is well worn and well used, with cereal lurking beneath.  There's the cross-stitched scripture framed above the bookshelf, a wedding gift from dear family friends.  There's the hand-me-down kitchen table with my name written underneath in permanent marker, scribbled over 25 years ago by my own small hand.  There are the white cribs turned toddler beds.  The clutter of toys.  The food permanently crusted to the booster seat.  The candle burning.  The coffee brewing.

There are times when we speak of "home" that we say it longingly, as if we have yet to arrive.  This "home" refers to a state of peace, wholeness, rest.  Of being surrounded by everyone we love.  Of never feeling sorrow, or disappointment, or shame.  Home.  A place where we are fully understood and fully understand.  If this is the meaning you wish to discuss then I am not yet "home."  But someday I will be.

And faith is, in the end, a kind of homesickness – for a home we have never visited but have never once stopped longing for. – Philip Yancey, Disappointment with God

Linking up a little late tonight but thought about "home" all day.  Will you link up too?