Home Part 5
June 6, 2026
Home Part 5
Every so often, only a handful of times a year, I find myself missing home. Not my home now, though I love it and miss it too, if I am away too long. I mean something older, deeper. I miss the kind of nurturance and affirmation that first taught me who I was. It is as a subtle yearning, an emptiness, a longing that’s hard to name, but it is for the warmth that once held me without question.
When that feeling comes, it moves through more than just memory. It settles into my mind, my heart, even my body. And almost without thinking, I reach for a teapot. It sits on a shelf, simple and worn. It was my mother’s. Draped over it is a tea cozy she knitted herself. That teapot carries a lifetime. From my earliest years to the final season of her life, we sat together—countless times—sharing tea and conversation. Over toast, butter, and marmalade, lemon curd, marmite, or McVitie’s wafers, we explored everything: family stories, faith, doubt, curiosity, neighbors, history, art, and the small and large dilemmas of life. We didn’t just talk, we worked things out. And as the tea warmed my hands and throat, something deeper was being poured into me: her wit, her wisdom, her way of seeing the world. Her encouragement. Her steadiness. Her love… her very heart.
When I left for college, I felt the absence of my home in a way that surprised me. Phone calls helped. Visits helped. But there were nights, uneasy, uncertain nights, when I longed for that warmth right then and there. So one day, I found a small, inexpensive teapot that reminded me of hers. It followed me through dorm rooms, apartments, and into the first home Lark and I shared. When we married, my mother knitted us our own tea cozy. We’ve used it ever since.
And when Mama passed, her teapot, chipped, stained, and of no real market value, became mine. But of course, its worth has nothing to do with money. It is sacred because of what it holds. It carries a presence. A connection. A living thread back to the love that shaped me. And when I pour tea and drink from it, something remarkable happens: I feel steadier. I am clearer, more creative, fuller… more of myself. Challenges soften. Answers come more easily. It is as though the qualities that nurtured me are not gone at all. It is that they are simply waiting to be expressed again.
Because the truth is, the object is not the magic. The love is. In sharing this with others, I’ve found I’m far from alone. Many people carry their own sacred objects… simple things that hold extraordinary meaning. A chair, a photograph, a recipe, a lullaby, a book. Each one is a doorway. Each one is a heartfelt reminder of who loved us first, and how deeply.
And almost always, those objects live in a special place: at home.
Spiritual practice: Place your hands on a sacred object of yours; let the feelings soar from your heart. Express these feelings in a poem, a letter, a piece of art, a song, a dance, or in any expression, including sharing these feelings with a dear friend.
Self-inquiry: How is it possible for an object of yours to be sacred?
Prayer:
Dear God, For every drop of tea from that pot, I am humbly grateful. Amen
