This is Home.

I watch my mom move the rolling pin across the counter. Her hands are chalky, covered in flour. They look old too, but in a beautiful way. They’ve weathered a thousand storms, and will likely face many more. An empty Crisco container sits in the trash, because everyone knows the best piecrust starts with that.

The dough stretches, slowly, surely, smoothly. My momma, she always makes the most perfect pies.

Reese’s shoes sit at the front door. Tiny orange Nikes for her new Longhorn adventures. The TV is too loud, but then, it always is. So we talk louder, my dad turns it up…you know how that goes.

I sit and I watch, smelling all the smells, seeing all the things, feeling all the feelings.

My heart, my head, my soul I think, they all yell, this is home.

Our plane lands in Denver and the sky is saturated with color. It’s as if God chose this night, this moment, to try His hand at painting, and not surprisingly, it’s perfection.

The mountains in the west sing their tried and true song of majesty and the autumn leaves slowly make the piles that we’ll all grumble about tomorrow.

Our little home is warm when we walk in. Our 6 copper mugs wink merrily in their spot of honor, as the light of that setting sun hits them one last time.

I wander through this tiny, humble home that Kelvin and I have made ours, gathering the mail, dropping bags and shoes and coats here and there.

My heart, my head, my soul I think, they all yell, this is home.









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What is this? What is it in us that pines so desperately, so longingly, for a place to call home? How can everywhere and nowhere feel like home, all at once?

As I get older, because yes, we all do, I dream dreams of lazy Saturday mornings, cold feet in a warm bed, a daughter splashing in the tub, a game of catch in the backyard. I see it sometimes, that picture of home, and I can’t figure out where I am at. Where I should be.

Do you know the definition of roots?

roots (n): (1) the part of a plant that attaches it to the ground or to a support, conveying water and nourishment to the rest of the plant; (2) the basic cause, source, or origin of something; (3) to establish deeply and firmly

Can you hear the truths in that? Establishing roots is not a mere scattering of seeds. It’s bigger than that, so much bigger.

The place I put my roots is the source of who I am. The support my roots find are meant to nourish me for the rest of my life.

The rolling pin smoothes, the copper mugs wink, and I’m thinking that home has nothing to do with any of it at all. I think I’ve been asking the wrong questions. I think I’ve been looking for the wrong thing.

C. S. Lewis says that “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.

Perhaps that’s been my problem all along. Perhaps this is the answer to the longing in every human heart.

And it’s so simple, really. It’s no wonder my heart and my head and my soul scream home in so many places.

What if home is not about geography at all?

And I think then, that I’m figuring out.

“If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”

I don’t know that it matters what ground my feet stand on. I don’t know that it matters what backyard I see outside my kitchen window.

Home is wherever I am when I’m with you. Wherever I go with you.

This is the place where I deeply and firmly establish myself.

These are my roots.

The King is the place I can always call home.



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