What does the word HOME mean to you?
Is it a building, a city, a nation, a continent?
Or is it a person, people, family, a community?
For me, home is people. Home is my friends. Home is my family. Home is getting to see their faces and hear how their lives have been changing and how they have been growing. Home looks like coffee shops, late night talks, city lights, laughter-filled lunches, and familiar and yet unfamiliar faces. It feels like sand and water from a beach run, a tear-streaked face from stories recounted and hardships confronted, and the wind whipping through my hair as I stand on a mountain shouting into the darkness of the night before me how much I miss the country I’ve just got back from. It sounds like singing quietly the words of a worship song faded from memory, like stretches of silence in between the woosh of a car passing on the street where I take all my phone calls, and the silent ding of a well-timed text of encouragement on a sleepless night.
People are home to me. When I see them, I can finally exhale out all the memories I’ve been holding onto so tightly.
I wish a house could feel like home to me, but it just doesn’t. I don’t think a building ever will. I’m not wired like that. Those who are wired to find comfort in a house, God bless you. There’s nothing wrong with that. Rock on.
For me, I will still need people. With them I am reminded that I have previous relationships when I travel and meet so many faces that everything becomes a blur, they anchor me when the sights and sounds of a foreign culture and language overwhelm me. They remind me of who I am, of God’s power and sovereignty. They keep me coming home.