Home is Where My Heart Is

After days and weeks of traveling, melting in the golden sun, and eating at various and sundry restaurants across the states of Tennessee and Kentucky, Blake and I are finally home. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Home. As much as I enjoy savoring the alluring amenities and conveniences of all the places we have stayed during the last few weeks, there is something very cozy about being alone in the silence of my small cozy apartment for a few minutes of bliss. We loved seeing family during the past few weeks and being in their homes. Those havens will always be home to us. Yet, something changed as we embarked on the journey from childhood into adulthood and marriage. The safe havens we had known and loved all of our lives, while still precious to us, didn’t grow up with us. As we left our homes and joined together in marriage, the apartment we lived in became our home.

Within five weeks of getting married, our oh-so-modern downtown apartment was robbed and we were informed that our apartment was inside a crack house. While definitely not the blissful experience we had imagined, the robbery taught us that the apartment was no longer our home; nor could any apartment, house, or building of any type ever be our home. Buildings are basically made out of dirt, rock, wood, dust. They decay. They burn. They get burglarized. They flood. They get demolished. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Another realization that has gripped me within the last three years is that my true home is in Heaven. As Christian loved ones have died, I have been convicted and am increasingly more convinced that they have truly gone home. What a glorious day that will be to see Jesus face to face and to be reunited with all of our friends and family who have already gone ahead of us!

But for now, we are here. Today, Blake is my home. Wherever we are together in a space of our own is home. Though the future is still oh-so-uncertain from our point of view, I am very comforted that, as far as it depends on us, we are taking it on together. It feels good to prop my feet up on a cheap old coffee table while sitting on someone's great aunt's couch in my living room. It feels great to walk into my kitchen and see a fresh white canvas in which the artistry of comfort cooking can begin. I love our porch and flower bed garden with a rabbit hole and a timid hydrangea. But most of all I love the feet propped up next to mine, the hungry man waiting patiently for his dinner every night, and the hand that holds mine as we sit in the shade and watch the garden grow. Home.