Home is a funny word.
By definition, it simply means a permanent residence.
The structure where you most often lay your head.
The address you have your Amazon orders shipped to.
It’s a basic concept really, but often it’s much more complex than any of these defining characteristics.
Home is Lincoln, Rhode Island.
A small town,
in a small (smallest) state,
occupied by some of the biggest influences in my life.
Friends, that I’ve been lucky enough to keep since the 3rd grade,
and more who have stuck with me along the way.
Family, that provides me with a constant and unwavering support through all of my choices, good and bad.
Mom, who has shown me what being truly good looks like,
just by being herself.
Home is Pascoag, Rhode Island.
A (smaller) town, that houses a beautiful little summer camp,
(formally known as the Episcopal Conference Center)
I may not live there permanently, but my heart sure does.
Friends, travel from far and wide to experience a tangible presence of God together,
to learn what it means to love fully and radically.
Family, sticks around,
sending generation after generation each summer,
creating a passionate connection that runs deep and wide throughout the community.
Mom, with me in tow, turned into the parking lot for the first time 7 years ago.
We read the words painted on the rock out front,
“He who enters here, is a stranger but once”,
and we never looked back.
Home is where you feel supported.
Home is where you feel heard.
Home is where you can laugh without any inhibitions.
Home is connection.
Home is vulnerability.
Home is acceptance.
Home is the people you choose to surround yourself with.
People who don’t dim your light,
turn it all the way up.
Home is (most recently) Denver, Colorado.
A (BIG) city that I’ve lived in now for almost a month,
where the air is dry (thank god),
and alive with new beginnings.
There’s a pulsing heartbeat here,
that calls people from all walks of life.
Friends, who are bright, shiny, and new,
who make me feel supported,
who make me feel heard,
who can make me laugh without any inhibitions
(and usually till I snort).
Family, who I am newly re-acquainted with,
who make it easy for connection,
who encourage vulnerability,
and who accept me for all that I am, and all that I’m not.
Mom, who calls to make sure I don’t forget how important it is,
to keep my light steady and sure,
because she believes it can reach farther and wider than I could ever imagine for myself.
Home is more than the address the UPS guy reads,
it’s the excitement my roommates and I share, as I get my first pair of Chacos in the mail.
Home is more than the place I lay my head,
it’s where we make dinner every weeknight while singing just a little too loudly.
Home is more than a permanent residence,
it’s where you find your heart being filled all the way up,
where you can exist honestly and without shame.
Home is a someone who makes you feel all these things.
(Even if they’re not made up of roofs, doors, and windows)
Home can be more.
Home can be less.
Home is a funny word.