Growing up we had a painting hanging in our hallway that read, 'Home is where the Air Force sends me.' Because my childhood was filled with one new home—Air Force base, community or school—after another, I never really understood commitment to a place. And home really was, what we made of it. Thanks to my mom, all of our houses, felt like homes, and somehow we slid into each new community, with the confidence that this is where we belonged. Now as an adult, whose military brat status is far behind me, I still think about what makes a home, and every day, I think about the home I am building—not just for me, but for my family too.
Home is where the warm sun shines through the windows onto my face and wakes me in the morning with its welcoming light.
Home is where I grind beans to brew hot coffee to drink, while working from home on my computer: planning, doing, guiding.
Home is where I fold clean laundry and tuck it neatly into bedroom cabinet drawers. Home is where I empty grocery bags and fill each shelf of the refrigerator with fresh food that will feed my family.
Home is where I create: where I feel brightly colored thread in my fingers and stitch embroidery; where I slice vegetables, boil pasta, sear meat; where I make Lego fire trucks with my boys.
Home is where Michael plays guitar and writes new songs, inspiring the boys' love for music.
Home is where I light candles and fill mason jars with flowers; where I put things in their place—toys, shoes and clean dishes.
Home is where I read story books and lay my babies in their beds at the end of the day.
Home is where we keep our hearts safe, where it's ok to be true to who we are, and where we can celebrate the courage to feel our feelings. Home is all of these things and so much more—home is where we come together, and where we love together.