The American dream has always been to own a house. For many it is made of brick, timber or stone. The size and grandeur dictated by the needs, wants and finances of the owner. The colors carefully chosen and the effect upon the neighborhood deliberate. A house can showcase our individuality and creativity while it shelters us from the winter snows and spring rains. A house becomes an outward symbol of our success while the material goods locked behind the doors are there to satisfy our possessive natures. But a house does not make a home.
Home…a simple four letter work that resonates with warmth when softly and smoothly spoken. For me it is a place that won’t be found on any map or GPS. Home is a precious place of deep feelings full of love, companionship, trust, respect and honesty. Its grandeur succeeds even the greatest of mansions built. A home is not to be seen by eyes but felt by the heart. It houses my soul.
My home is made in the arms of my best friend and husband. Where ever we are together in life…that is where my home exists. In the mountains, on the lake….in a tent or in a house. I am at home when I am with him whether we are traveling down the highway or sitting quietly on a porch swing. Home gives me comfort in times of stress and struggles. It is that place in my soul that shines where life feels most complete. It reminds me that love is as real as the sunshine that falls upon my face. As real as the darkest of days and the longest of nights. I am fifty plus years into my life journey…and I am home at last.