Home Sweet Home

There’s no place like home… or so they say. But what is a home? Home is a place where you can belong- a place where you can be who you really are- unguarded. What is that place for you?

For me, when I walk in the door of my house, it is chaos. “Mama’s home!” It’s like two words to ensure a whirlwind of movement and a torrent of words. Quiet moments do not happen until far after bedtime, and that time is typically monopolized by the weightiness of Responsibility.  Ugh- adulting. Yet, this crazy place is my house. Is it a home? You betcha. If you walk in my door, I want you to kick your shoes off (literally because I hate dirty floors), pour yourself a glass of tea, and stay a while. Welcome to my home.

But this is certainly not the only home I have. Home for me is going back to Mississippi. Home is where my heart is, and my heart is there. Though my family and friends have all moved on in their lives from where they were when my naive teenage self still lived there, I still go home to Corinth. (Typically in search of a Borrum’s milkshake and turkey melt- yum.) It’s where I became me. That town, those people molded me into the woman I am today. And I am proud of my roots. Though the town and people have changed, it’s still where I go home.

And even this is still not my only home. The House is my home. It’s my new church- The House. That’s right- it’s mine. I say it like I possess it because I do… along with my many family members. We have The House to go home to. It’s not like any church I’ve ever attended (which is A LOT, believe you me!).

You know the stereotypical Sunday mornings- Mom’s running around trying to apply mascara while one kid pees on the floor, the other asks for another pancake, and Dad spins in circles trying to decide who needs him where. They all scream and yell and cry (Mom- not the kids), then they get to church, adjust their smiles, tuck their Bibles in their armpits, and pretend the world is okay.

That was a lot of Sunday mornings for me as a kid. (Ha! Sorry, Mom, but you know it’s true!) That’s still a lot of my Sunday mornings that are like that now. But now, I don’t smile and pretend everything is ok. I bluster through the door dragging one kid through, pushing the other to the donuts, hoping to God someone hugs one of them and ushers them off to class… then hugs me because I just need it. And that IS what happens. My kids walk through that door knowing there are people inside who love them, who will help them when Mommy’s is a little crazy. I walk through that door knowing that even though I am a little crazy, my friends, my family love me. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to smile. But once I get there, I feel like smiling.

I smile because I am home. I am in my Father’s house with my family. And we can let loose, be ourselves and love one another as we are. We can lay aside the troubles and adulting of this world, focus on heavenly matters and just take a deep breath in. It’s just like Jesus wanted church to be…. because the church is not the building I enter any more than a house is a home. The church is my family because they are the ones who make The House MY home.

“I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the LORD.”

Psalm 122:1

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