None of the places in these pictures are home, but they each hold sweet memories.
I remember when I realized that some people actually live in the same house from the time they're born to the time they move out on their own. It wasn't just in TV shows like Full House. It was some of my friends' reality. I was in high school; my jaw hit the floor.
My family moved about once every year and a half. We weren't in the military or missions. It was just my dad’s jobs and my parents’ desire for how and where we grew up. (Also a fluctuating money situation, but you don't know that as a kid). It never even crossed my mind that it was weird to move so often until I had that revelation in high school. And you know what? I still don’t think it’s weird. Now I understand that it’s kind of unusual to have moved as many times as we did, but I don’t feel gypped or like I missed out on something. I actually like that we moved around a lot.
I got to see so many places and meet so many people. Every new house felt like a castle to explore. Every new bedroom had its own unique smell (in a good way!) Every living room hid secrets and memories of lives past-lived. Every neighborhood had new surroundings and neighbors to inspire wonder. Every move promised a new frontier for exploration, discovery, play, surprises, disappointment, laughter, imagination…
To this day I enjoy moving. I look forward to finding something new and exciting in the next place. I actually have more trouble staying still than I do packing up. (It’s worth noting, though, that I hate saying goodbye to people...go figure). When I'm in the same place for a long time, I get antsy. I feel stuck. What if there’s a more exciting living situation out there and I'm missing out on some adventure?
Living in Spain and oscillating between adventurous and homesick keeps bringing this question to the surface of my mind: Where is home? Even before I arrived in Spain, I began to feel a deep desire for some stability. For a home base. Somewhere or something or someone constant. When I hear friends talking about their childhood best friend that they still talk to or the sweet, quirky memories they have of "home", I've found myself pretty envious. These people might not love everything about where or how they grew up...but at least they know where home is. Where it once was.
What is home? Where do I call home? My dad lives in the house where I lived for ages 15-22, but I've had just as many bad memories there as I've had good ones. And even if I hadn't, why should that house feel more like home than the other 12 houses I grew up in? It’s not that I don’t know who I am or where I came from or how my childhood has influenced me. I actually think about those things a lot; I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on them. It’s just that it’d be nice to have something to point to. A backyard full of oak trees with a rusty trampoline; a manatee-shaped mailbox that's lived in the neighborhood longer than I have; a grumpy old man who's still complaining about the neighborhood but will never move out of the corner house. Something reliable, predictable, familiar. Something tangible to contain all the wonderfully vivid colors of my childhood.
Where is home? I really wish I had a simple, concrete answer for myself. One that included those oak trees and the grumpy old man. But at the same time, I don't feel lost. The fog of homesickness and adrenaline of living abroad are punctuated by moments of clarity and security. Moments when I feel seen. Moments when I know that there's more than shifting sand under my feet. Moments that tell me I'm growing something solid and grounded in my two and a half decades...even if I can't always see the roots.
My answer may change in a month or a decade, but I think home is where you feel known. A friend's hug exactly when you need it. Being a part of a group where you come alive. A mentor reminding you who you are and how far you've come. I'd love it if I could find that feeling in a backyard or a mailbox, but since I can't, I'll keep finding it in the faces and hugs and words of those around me. I'll keep finding it in Jesus and who He says I am. The faces and door numbers are probably going to keep changing. But wherever I go, as long as I have those people in my life, I know I can always go home.
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