Home Part 1
June 2, 2026
Home Part 1
I stopped recently at the house where I grew up—and at first, I hardly recognized it.
What was once a pristine, newly built neighborhood now feels worn, a little tired, softened by time. The streets no longer gleam. The homes no longer sparkle. Yet beneath that weathering, I could still feel a sense of home. I visited there many years ago, and the owner was there. She invited me to see the house. It was amazing to relive my childhood in one amazing visit. This time, no one was at home, so I took the liberty to walk around some of “my yard.” And all that was home enveloped me again.
I remember when I was five years old, and there was no house there at all… only a thickly wooded lot in a brand-new subdivision. My parents chose that place and cleared it to build their first home: a modest red-brick, one-story house with a blue-shingled roof, metal crank-out windows, and a wide double-carport.
After the land was cleared of brush and trees to build the house, two great pecan trees stretched overhead, alongside tall oaks, a cedar, a camphor tree, and a sweeping mimosa. My father planted small sprigs of St. Augustine grass that slowly spread until they blanketed the entire yard. Over time, my parents filled the space with blooming life—azaleas, sasanquas, camellias, ligustrums—until the yard became something more than a yard, it felt alive. It became a world, and a world of my own.
And I lived in it fully. I lay for hours in the grass, chewing on its sweet stems. I climbed as high as I dared into the trees. I wandered, explored, and imagined. That place was enchanting to my little self. It didn’t just surround me, it held me.
The house itself carried its own magic. Sliding closet doors. A front porch and a back porch. A den wrapped in warm ponderosa pine paneling. A yellow kitchen. A blue bathroom. Another bathroom in black and white. The hallway’s floor furnace crackled in the winter, and in the ceiling above it was the attic fan that hummed its steady lullaby, easing me into sleep on hot summer nights.
There was nothing extraordinary about the house or yard by outward measure. It looked much like the others around it. Except for one thing that made all the difference: I was loved there.
And because I was loved, I was safe. Because I was safe, I had a place. Because I had a place, I belonged.
Standing there again just weeks ago, I walked through the yard and reached out to touch the front door. In that instant, time fell away. I was not just remembering—I was there. The same sense of safety rose in me. The same quiet certainty. The same love. And I realized something I hadn’t fully understood before: Home’s outward structure is just a gateway to the more profound spiritual experience. To be home is to be loved. The spiritual experience is being held in that love so fully that, even years later, your soul recognizes it instantly.
And perhaps that’s why moments of true love, wherever we find them, feel so familiar and so grounding. So complete. They echo something eternal. They remind us of our true origin… and our belonging. They remind us of our real home.
This week, we will reflect on the many meanings of “home.” But maybe it begins here: Where love is, home is.
Spiritual practice: Watch, “A Trip to Bountiful,” by Horton Foote. What is the spiritual message to you in this work?
Self-inquiry: When do you feel most at home?
Prayer:
Dear God, For belonging, I am grateful. Amen
