Homeless

In a homily a few weeks ago, our campus minister spoke about "homecoming." The definition of "home" is not always what people think. Although when you search the word many definitions do appear, (some including the building surrounding you) the one that sticks out to me is "the place in which one's domestic affections are held." A house is just something with walls and rooms, but home hits much deeper than that. 

If I'm being honest, I have felt a bit "homeless" the past couple of years. When my mom and brother moved out of the only house I've lived in for more than three years and in with my grandparents, I didn't have a room anymore. My personality type is not one to start confrontation. Although I will stand up and say when something is bothering me, I would rather see those I love happy and healthy. So instead of whining and complaining about not having a room, I was happy to move in with my grandparents and excited to see a new chapter in our lives start unfolding. Aside from that, I knew that it would not be long before I would be back at Louisiana Tech University with friends who have become family.

However, I still could not shake the feeling of homelessness. It has been very difficult to get past the fact that I no longer have a room in a house somewhere that is just mine. When I am at my grandparents, I share a bed with my mom or stay on an air mattress with a TV in the living room. When I am at school, I share a room two beautiful young ladies. When I am at my dad's, I stay in a guest room. I think that's why I have been so eager this year to graduate. I have lost sight of what graduation really means and started focusing on the fact that I can finally have my own place. 

Whenever I talk to my mom about these feelings, she says something along the lines of "But home is wherever I am." Although this is true, I have lost sight of that as well. I have been too focused on my self-pity and wallowing that I forgot what home really means. I have forgotten that change of scenery does not have to mean change of heart.

After hearing the homily a couple of weeks ago, I realized how crazy I have been. I'm the furthest thing from homeless. I don't have a bedroom with my name on it; so what? There are people who have much less than I do in regards to shelter. I am beyond blessed. It doesn't matter where I am, I still have a roof over me and a warm place to rest my head. On top of that, I have so many people who love me. My home extends across many miles and many smiling faces.

Home is where my best friend and her newborn son are.

Home is where my church and church family are.

Home is where I can bake cookies and make someone smile.

Home is somewhere in Arkansas with a girl who holds me accountable.

Home is where people make me laugh so hard my stomach aches.

Home is where ten people pile on top of a couch because one person had a bad day.

Home is where my Doctor Who loving, always encouraging, and beautiful roommate is.

Home is where my dad's homemade baked ziti is. 

Home is where there are pictures hanging on the wall of family.

Home is where the homemade biscuits and tomato gravy are.

Home is where my brother's sketches line the walls.

Home is where I can't think straight because the family is too loud. 

Home is where my mom is.

Being home doesn't mean a place. Being home means forgetting all of the things that worry me; all of the things that have given me grief or pain over the past few months. Being home means I am surrounded by people who love me. Sometimes it means being driven insane when my baby brother can't stop tapping the table. Sometimes it means spending the day watching TV. Sometimes home is sitting in my mom's office catching up with old friends. Home does not mean a house. Call me cliche, but home really is where the heart is.

This is my home: