After four nights in the new apartment, I finally got back to making the bed up properly with the skirt, mattress protector and top cover. I love the way a freshly made bed feels as you slide beneath its smooth sheets, made better only by clean shaven legs. But this night as I surveyed my bed making skills, I wasn’t thinking about smooth sheets and legs. It was the first moment since moving in that I thought to myself, “this is my home.”
“Home” for someone who’s moved as frequently as I have in the last 10 years is less about the four walls, bricks and mortar. It’s more about the people and the spirit contained within those walls. This apartment isn’t where I want to find myself two years from now. It isn’t where I want scratch lines in a door frame with pencil as my children grow taller. But wherever I am, wherever my children are, I want it to be home.
It would be easy for me to leave things in boxes, stuffed in corners and closets. Decorations can stay wrapped in paper and pictures can never be hung. But for the sake of “home” these things are put out there because it makes me feel good to have them there. I could leave books and games and dolls packed away. Except that it makes my kids feel more comforted and secure to have them around, even if it means I trip over them all as I walk through their shared room. I want it to feel like home.
This goes beyond temporary versus permanent housing. It’s about finding peace and contentment with whatever situation we are faced with in our lives. It’s about making a choice to react positively to changes we otherwise have very little control over. It’s about being thankful for what we have and daily seeking ways to bless those around us.