Homes

Technically, the word "home" shouldn't be plural. Because there really should only be one.

I have always thrown the word "home" around quite loosely... which seems odd to those who have only one definition of home. Even after spending just two nights in a hotel on the road, I call it "home" when I'm ready to turn in for the day. But just because I perhaps overuse the word "home" does not mean that I take it lightly. In fact, home is something I treasure.

When I was little, Home was an apartment building on a quiet street in Basel, Switzerland. The stairs were covered with thick, red carpeting that I loved to crawl up and down. Home was the smell of roasted chestnuts, reading Calvin and Hobbes with Dad after a bath, and singing and learning with Mom.

When we moved to Michigan, Home became the freedom of our very own garden, the curve in the sidewalk and the yellow sign we biked to with our bare feet. Home was the smell of coffee mixing with the gentle wood scent of our house and the sound of muffled voices coming from the living room in the morning. This home is deeply buried in my heart. It's where I have grown up. Where I went to school. Where I became who I am. Where my family is.

But then I moved to college. Home became the whitewashed brick walls of Alpha, the sound of ladybugs flying into the blinds, and incessant shrieks of laughter.
Each year of college this home took on a new form. Sophomore-year Home was the sound of our squeaking door that shut on its own... developing friendships, deep conversations, and long phone chats. Junior year was once again inside the brick walls of Alpha, but Home was totally different. Thick carpeting, our own lighting, and our own artwork softened the harshness and sterility of our small room. My roommate and I were in it for year two. Home was the sound of hilarity, prayer, and singing.

Senior year, my home feels more like Home than my other college homes. In an apartment surrounded by dear friends including my steady roommate... it feels like real life. real home. my own.

Summer homes are always Hungary... the big house on top of the hill with the rust-colored gate, the winding stairs to spacious rooms. The echoes of voices, the big double doors, Persian rugs, salami sandwiches, and inhaling Nagyi-hugs.

As much as I love places, smells, and sounds, Home for me has less to do with place. It's about people. Homes become defined by the people I love, and a place becomes Home when I leave a bit of my heart there. When I think back to favorite places, precious memories, I find that they are not most often tied to the place itself, but to the people I'm with. But place gives a setting where my relationships grew. Home becomes precious as people in those places become precious.

I feel so blessed to have so many Homes... places where my heart, like a starfish, has splintered and my love has grown.