When we hunger to belong, it is home we seek.

When we toss, turn, stirring and straining, it is home we want.

When we wrap in blankets, warm water and embraces and long to stay right here always, it is home.

When we ache for assurance, tenderness, understanding, it is home.


When we smile, listen, look long into eyes or bring tea to a bedside, it is home we give.

When we encourage instead of criticize, it is home.

When we try to hear the heart and not only the words, when we pull up a chair, it is home.

When we refrain from dictating relationship’s conditions and hold out an open hand to give and receive, we make room for home.


I sit in bed today, fighting off sickness, and I am learning again to slow, to know this Home that lives within me. I gratefully (though still reluctantly) receive the kindness of my mom-in-law who cares for my girl and makes muffins that waft under the door, so I can rest. Michael called her last night to see if she could stand in the gap for us as she so often does, and though it is precisely what I want and think my body needs, I struggle to accept it. I feel guilt aches.

What makes me worthy? echoes in my mind’s corners. I’m not sick enough for this kind of help. Then there’s the part that expects to just be sick and worn ragged and go. I will probably be fine if I take some more meds, splash my face, keep keeping on because this is what love does…


Then there are days like this when I lie in bed, a light breeze fluttering white sheer curtains and think how much I long for this world the kind of love and care that simply is. That is wafting muffins and covers wrapped close and faint giggles in hallways, and I want to remind myself and you that we are all journeying home, and we practice by making room for it now.


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