What Home Means to Me

I once believed that Home was a house

Home was the place that I grew up in

Home was the playhouse that my grandma painted Mickey Mouse characters on

Home was the rope swing my uncle had attached way up high in the oak tree in our front yard

Home was the beautiful barn my dad and grampa built

Home was the tiny hand prints we left in the concrete sidewalk

Home was the echos of our childhood laughter, the memories of better days

But then I grew up. I traveled. We moved.

And I realized that

Home is driving in the lane and having your dog waiting for you to open your door

Home is a Sunday afternoon spent with your friends

Home is your mom making popcorn

Home is coming back from a trip and having to make a schedule to organize all the plans you have with the people you’ve missed

Home is late night conversations with your sisters

And early morning discussions with your mom

Home is lunch with old friends

Home is your church canceling Wednesday night services to help you move

Home is talking with strangers in the grocery line

Home is going to the bank and knowing everyone’s names

Home is going to the gym and talking for thirty minutes before you can even start your workout

Home is a grill out with family

Home is lightening bugs in the summer

And bonfires in the fall

Home is being excited that one time it actually snows

Home is not a house

Home is the beautiful people(and animals!) that make up your life