(Photo by Tara Gourley, edited by moi)
I've been thinking a lot about home, probably because I still am, in fact, not there. I brought pieces of home with me, and I suppose that helped a little, but my books, blanket, pillow, and stuffed bunny do not my bedroom make. So this leads me to wonder, what does make a place home? I know the answer to this question differs for every individual, but I want to know what it means for me. Couples will say that their spouse is their home; that as long as their special someone is with them, they don't care where they are. But what if they are gone? When business trips are taken, when duty calls, or when something much worse occurs, what is left? Will that woman be left in a house that suddenly seems unfamiliar, foreign, oppressive, and lacking the light that it once had? Or say maybe her house truly feels like a home. What if the nooks and crannies are bits of her soul? Would she sink into depression if uprooted from that place? I would not put something so drastic past myself, but that's just me. I get attached to the familiar; wrapped up in the substance of what is, but what will not last. I honestly tremble when I think of the idea of marriage. One mortal man stuck with the most flawed, emotional, broken woman in all of history, for forever and always. Could I really do that to someone? Could I ever come to the point where I am willing to risk that, because I am so in love? Where I let him say 'I do,' when really I think it is the stupidest choice he could of made, and really, so-and-so would be so much better for him? If I loved someone enough to do that, then I promise, I would be hopelessly attached. If I lost him … I would never recover. (This is part of the reason I'm waiting instead of dating. I have a loooooong way to go before I am ready. Obviously.)
So. I should return to my original point. Home. This is what it is to me, currently:
A place where I can be without makeup and still feel like I have value. A place where I can sleep soundly (sadly, this is nowhere at present). Somewhere that I can be as loud or as quiet as I like, and not be embarrassed of either. Where I can do something of value, and lazing around on my bum is not condoned. Where there is wifi, please and thank you. Where I feel like my needs are not a hassle or a waste of time. Where I can sing. Where there are at least pictures of the faces I love most. Where there are journals, and time to fill them.
It's a lot to ask for, and an incomplete list. I'm sentimental and selfish, and there are certain things that I cling to. I don't think anything on that list is a bad thing, but I think my priorities are askew.
Did anyone else notice that nothing on that list directly involved God? Have I become so messed up that a house without the Lord as the focus could ever feel like a home to me; like safe place? That's the scariest thing imaginable. Separated from God, and not even caring; barely even noticing. Get me out of this place.
If I am in a dirty shack in Uganda, but I'm praising the Lord, I am home. If I am a millionaire in a mansion, striving to serve God daily, I am home. If I am crammed in a small house with seven other girls, tired, worn out, and sickly, but God is my focus, then I am home. Our home shouldn't change when our address does. It shouldn't make a difference in our hearts whether we have all our furniture with us or not. We should still be at peace, even when far away from our husbands, wives, children, and loved ones. If all we have is Him, we have all we need.

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