Some people believe home is where you came from. Others see home as the shelter where you eat and sleep and watch over everything you own in this world. There is also the cliché that says . . . home is where the heart is, which is so vague it could mean anything, and therefore, means nothing.
For most of my life, I assumed home was a place. I have the house I grew up in, the town I came from, and the city I live in right now. Lately, though, I have begun to think it is not about location, but about belonging. It is not where I came into the world, or where I exist in it today, but how I feel connected to it.
I might call my residence my home, yet I get the feeling of home not from what is around me, but from what is inside me. It is that deep knowing that I am loved by my Creator, and no matter what happens . . . everything will always be okay. It is the peace that surpasses understanding. It is the presence of love in my life — the love that comes first from the author of love, and also the love I have for other people and the love they have for me.
I can feel at home hiking alone in nature, sitting in a café sipping tea with a friend, or going for a drive with someone I love. Home is something I can take with me wherever I go.
Yet, this wasn’t always the case. For much of my life, I didn’t feel at home anywhere. It took a lot of living before I understood we will never feel at home in this world until we first feel at home with ourselves — until we stop all our striving and simply allow ourselves to be.