In all my picture posting and highlighting of the graduate, I never really mentioned what being home looks like and what it means to me. Truth be told, as it probably is for most people (whether the experience is good or bad), this is difficult to put to words.

There’s an element of peace that fills my being at returning to my home base. It’s familiar and comforting. I know it well. The steps, turns, sounds, smells… all waiting for me when I walk in the door. My room will be just as I left it six months prior (only probably a little cleaner). My mom bestows the consistency of this experience, and makes the space what it is. I have loved my childhood home from the first day I laid eyes on its bare-boned frame.

Without fail, home means hours of conversation (probably in the kitchen), debating life, theology, and faith until we notice three hours just went by and it’s time to either stir mom’s homemade bread or go to bed. My dad and I like to keep each other on our toes…

There’s always affection, laughter, story-telling, (more) conversation, eating, and energy.

It’s where I’m not always understood, but I am known.

And it’s the place I feel most loved, most myself, and almost always, most at peace.


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