Home

Home.

It’s a funny word, made up of less than five letters but encompassing so much. 

It means family, hugs, and kisses. It means a balloon that says “WELCOME HOME!” (which was supposed to make my sister more visible but ended up being the last thing I noticed). 

It means my own bed, and sleeping in all the way until 8 o’clock in the morning.

It means a can of real American spaghetti sauce. It means eating a real apple for the first time since I left this place nine weeks ago.

It means my church family and more minute-long hugs than I’ve ever had there before in my life. It means people who have followed my journey on Facebook because it was practically the only way to.

It also means 19° Fahrenheit, but I don’t care because my family is here.

It’s not my comfort zone anymore, but it’s comforting. It’s somewhere where I can make my own fun without having to spontaneously plan it ahead of time. A place where I can play my own piano (finally!) and squeak out a couple melodies on my own violin. (Squeak is the right word.)

A place where I am finally needed.

Home. It’s a wonderful place.