Home is where I lay my head at night.
Home is the hotel midway between here and there.
Home is the household where we have been welcomed as missionaries on deputation.
Home is the terrace house on the curve of Crescent Way.
Home is the cabin constant in summers.
Home is my son's flat in Los Angeles where two kitties greet me.
Home is my daughter-in-law's welcome.
Home is my daughter's new flat in Longmont when I will go and visit.
Home is my son-in-law's hug.
Home is where Tod is.
Home is where the heart is.
My daughter's musings on "home" as she unpacks boxes and settles in to her new flat got me thinking. How grateful I am for roots that travel and take hold in fresh soil.
My daughter inspires me. She writes:
"...how big a part of home and home-making trust is: learning to trust others, learning to trust a place, a community and perhaps most importantly practicing day in and day out trust of oneself. The latter is, certainly for me but perhaps for many of us, one of the hardest parts of making home and being at home. And then trusting or having faith (perhaps in others, perhaps in ourselves, perhaps in something greater than us, the divine, perhaps in all of the above) to share ourselves, our strengths and our vulnerabilities with others. Not because we think they will necessarily be loved, accepted or even agreed with but because it is in this authenticity, in this vulnerable being in the world that allows us to grow into and be our best and truest selves."
