At Home for the Holidays: A Peek at How I Redefined Home

Welp. It’s that time of year when we gather with loved ones or at least the ones we’re related to, right? ‘Tis the season, when many of us will travel home to connect with family and friends near and far. We take time off of work so we can jingle all the way to the cookies and egg nog or whatever else we can shovel into our mouths to avoid THAT TOPIC with THAT PERSON. For better or worse, most of us are going home or being a home in the next few weeks.

These days, I’ve been mulling over the idea of home—how I define it and what it means to me at this stage in life. I am keenly aware that I’ve spent the past 20 years living far away from my own home in central Florida. As a college kid in the north, I was so grateful to return to the south for Christmas. A month off with my parents and sibs in the Sunshine State? Um, yes please. The chance to reconnect with good friends who knew me during the era of big bangs and bad skin? Bring it. A respite from the rigors of academia? Sign me up.

 

 

In 2001, I took a job in the northeast, got married, and moved a few times. From Venezuela to Wisconsin, Pennsylvania to Florida, home is a fluid term for me, shifting with the places and faces that I’ve grown to know and love. Twenty-six homes in thirty-nine years. That’s right: I’ve lived in 26 homes in 39 years. Given all the moves and adjustments to different cultures and climates, accents and food, my ideas about the topic of home have morphed over time.

I no longer view home from a binary perspective. For me, home is not one place or another, these people or those people. It’s not limited to family or blood ties but more about a sense of belonging, usually found with certain people and in certain places.

Home is where mutual vulnerability is encouraged

and hospitality whispers, “You’re invited–just as you are.”

• Home is certain people. Home is those who’ve welcomed me and provided a safe space for me to question and doubt and wrestle with theology and faith, culture and politics. Home is those who show up in the middle of my grief with chocolate, wine, and tissues. Home is those who accept the pain and anger, who sit in the ashes with me and rise when it’s time to stand again. Home is those who invite meaningful conversations and who, without pursed lips or eye rolls, patiently allow my juveniles to be juvenile. Home is those who embrace my melodramatic sense of humor, *occasional* sarcasm, and basic tomfoolery. Home is those who’ve made it clear through kind gestures and consistent contact that my presence in their lives matters. Home is those who’ve earned my trust, who gently speak the truth when I most need to hear it and invite me to do likewise. Being together is mutually life-giving. These are my people–and they’re scattered all over the world.

 

• Home is certain places: Home is any physical place where I feel like I belong. Home is central Florida where I grew up, where my parents and 2 of my 4 siblings and their families live. Home is a dear friend’s house in western PA with coffee brewing, soup on the stove, and plenty of bread and laughter to go around. Home is the Appalachian Trail and the Susquehanna River, where I’ve been challenged and nurtured by rocky terrain and moving water. And for this Florida-raised kid, home is always the sound of waves breaking at dawn, the rough sand beneath my feet, and the familiar smell of sunscreen wafting through the salty air. These are my places, where I’m free to exist and explore.

 

 

 

Right now, home is North Walnut St., where I go to bed too late and wake up too early. It’s where I pack lunches and pour steaming water over fresh coffee grounds. It’s where I curl up in my favorite chair, content with a good book. It’s where I open my front door to kids asking to play, my neighbor offering a Schnitz pie, or some sad stranger looking for the funeral home. It’s where I work hard to craft words that matter. It’s where I sweep and scrub and dust and mow and change sheets and haul laundry. It’s where I tickle tiny toes, comfort broken hearts, and wipe runny noses. It’s where I hold growing children that have morphed from tiny bundles of pudge to oversized bean stalks with elbows and knees spilling over my lap. It’s where I snuggle and pray and argue with my Love. It’s where he and I laugh together at our favorite shows and weep over orphans, racism, broken community, and death.

While I adore my physical home in all of its 131 years of charm, I could pack up our simple life tomorrow, shed a few tears over this beautiful space, and still be home wherever I unload next. I say this not because I have no soul or because I’m numb to the pain of good-byes, but because home is less about a specific structure for me and more about the souls within its walls—and the souls I’ve collected along the way. I wouldn’t grieve the loss of this physical building per se, I’d grieve having to leave a small community I’ve come to know and love.

 

 

I don’t know what home means to you, good readers. Maybe it’s immediate or extended family members or the home where you were raised. Maybe, like several wounded humans I know, you don’t feel accepted *as you are* with those who share your bloodlines. Maybe your home and the town where you were raised, are full of painful memories. Or maybe you live so far from your people that connecting over the holidays is an impossible task. Wherever or whoever you call home, I hope you can savor some time with those people and places that encourage mutual vulnerability and welcome you–just as you are.

And if you have nowhere to go, email me. I hear North Walnut St. is open. We’ll brew some coffee, eat some cookies, and share a million stories in front of the fire.

 

This is such a layered topic and I’d love to hear from you guys. Some questions to consider and respond to in the comments:

Who or where do you call home?

How would you define home?

What could you do to help someone else feel at ‘home’ this holiday season?