As a young girl I held a lonely dream
close to my heart
of a home
I wanted to build one day,
my soul hungry with
wishing and wanting.I imagined how this home
would feel
~warm and welcoming,
comfortable and comforting,
psychologically approachable
yet disarming
with friendly unexpecteds
…a gentle surprise here
some quirky dissonance there,
like good music and coffee and stories and wine.
Outside the wolves may howl
but my nest would be fiercely gentle
and relentlessly FOR the tender hearts who took shelter there.

I had a moment earlier this week
when time stood still enough to be noticed
like the children’s growth marks we used to scratch in pencil
on our kitchen door frame.
In just that moment, for no particular reason,
my heart took a candid snapshot of my present home.
~sort of took it’s emotional temperature.

(It was like stepping on a scale after you’ve given up dieting
…gave yourself a break and began enjoying life and food,
maybe just swallowing less,
and the grace almost knocks you over
as you wonder “HOW did this happen?
Effortless weight loss!)

After years of trying to make the sweet home of my dreams,
a safe place to rest and be and play and fall
I gave up.
I didn’t leave or quit on the people I love.
I just let go of the idealism that was driving me,
choosing instead to get busy living my own life
and becoming who I was born to be
instead of wrapping myself in everyone elses.

And now, here it was,
the thermometer reading a brilliant 98.6.
Perfect? Hardly.
But healthy.

I wonder if the home I’ve always dreamed of
is simply my own bare soul drawn near to the warm fire of grace
burning bright,
not just for the others,
but for myself as well.

Maybe I’m becoming
the home I always longed for.