Home. These four solid walls of burnt adobe in southern Arizona. Right here on a Saturday morning, all of us still in our pajamas, the house smelling of bacon, while I sip my coffee in a way I just can’t do on a Monday morning and I listen to giggles and the washing machine turning.
Home. Those four solid walls of creamy yellow. Right there, lying on my mom’s couch while she cooks pot roast and does my laundry and Evangeline across the room on Grandpa’s lap.
Home. No walls at all as I sit at the park on a clear Tucson morning, gabbing with friends while our little ones play and grow up before our very eyes.
Home. Four walls of blue-ish gray, in the quiet of my bedroom, all by myself, the door closed, re-reading Harry Potter for the 5th time through.
It’s intimate, it’s deeply personal. It’s where the heart is, after all.
Yet, there it is too, in the vast farmlands of Illinois y las playas de Chile and the Wide Open Spaces of Arizona.
It’s inviting me in, to stay, to live. It’s sending me out to go, to love.
It has witnessed it all, the good the bad and the ugly because my life is comprised of good and bad and ugly.
Its where I am the most comfortable but where the biggest messes happen.
Home is slavery back in Egypt. Where I have made all the wrong decisions and cried all the tears and received all the wounds.
Home is the Promised Land full of milk and honey. Where I have loved and been loved in return, and held babies and said vows and snuggled and laughed and worshipped and danced.
It’s across the country and it’s right here, in my arms.
It’s in the sanctuary where I learn and sing.
It’s solid. I can touch it’s face and hold it’s hand and carry it to bed and slow dance with it and hear it crying and breathing.
And yet, it can’t be contained. It’s an ache, a yearning, a fulfillment, a moment, a memory, joy and peace and love.
Home is with you.
Home is with You.
It envelopes me and nurtures me and shelters me and asks me to do the same for others.
Casa y Hogar.
My house. My home.