What is Home?

I've heard some say it's where your pillow is. Others would say it's where your heart is. Maybe you define home as where you pay rent or where the majority of your family members reside. Perhaps you refer to home as a region rather than a distinct location. For some of you, home is a collection of memories or a place to hide. Some of you left for college to never return home again - your parents moved due to "empty nest syndrome," a job transfer, or something very significant happened that would forever change the way you felt when you came "home." A change that would make you wonder if you could ever feel "home" at home again.

God's immutability has taken on a whole new meaning in my life. Since I left for college, my existence has required a barf bag in the front car of the wildest rollercoaster I could have ever imagined. One tragic event after another, followed by gracious persistence and momentum to move forward, to wind up doing a loop of confusion, down thrilling ramp of altered perspective, climbing a hill of calm and normalcy, for a quick drop into silence which rides out as a promise is kept... And the cycle goes on and on. So, God's never-changing attribute is precious.

Through it all, I have felt uncomfortable - experiencing both belonging and a lack of belonging. Why did I leave Lincoln? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why did I leave Danville? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why am I in New Hampshire? I had once belonged, and for the moment I still belong.

But when I think of home...Derry, NH is not what comes to mind.

What is my home? It is an antique iron bed in a yellow bedroom in a white, stucco home in central Illinois. It is my mom crotcheting rugs in the living room. It is my oldest brother tearfully waving goodbye after a weekend visit. It is my older brother and his family next door. It is my baby brother and his family two blocks north. It is my dad commuting to work everyday. It is sacred. It is a story, a testimonial, of who I am and where I am going. And when home changes, I sense that story losing its validity - as though the life were being sucked right out of it. Perhaps the one thing I'm terrified of most is the final breath of my mother's existence being exhaled. Something which may only be best understood by her one daughter. Certainly, we can exchange cliches of her ongoing presence in the lives she touched, we can attempt to re-tell almost-forgotten stories she took great pride in sharing, but when I go "home" it will in a sense be fading away.

I now wonder how I can redefine my home, my story, so the expectations melt away?
I even wonder if it is possible.