The older I get, the more I change my views on what "home" is. It started in college, when I would get confused in saying "I'm going back home" in referring to college when I had been staying at my home of the past decade for the weekend. That was an awkward time. Which "home" I meant became confusing...was it "home-home" or "school-home"? And did that offend my parents to call school home? Now that I've moved out, home is not where my parents live, where my pets reside, where my old nick-nacs and trophies collect dust.
No...home is where the people are that I love. Home is less and less a geological location, but rather a state of comfort in the relationships that mean the most to me. I have at least two homes then, possibly 3 or 4. The phrase "home is where the heart is" can be so true. And though it may be sad to say this brick edifice in which I grew and cried and learned who I was is not really my home, it is also liberating. No one can destroy my home. My home is where there is love: with family, with friends, and ultimately with Christ. And because of the last one, I am always at home wherever I may roam. My heart, though often restless, is always at home.
Home in His hands,
Jane
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