To be at home when you are nowhere certain, whenever you are there with no one certain. And yet, I am home. I don't really know this place that I find myself. For, what is home really? You can live somewhere, be at your house, but not be at home. My home is where memories and love are. Not that romantic fickle kind, but true; brother, sister, mother, daughter, father kind of love. The kind of love that makes me feel home is the love that caused one man to die. I didn't ask, nor did anyone else ask for him to. But he gave it all for the love to make us be at home. So that, on that day, our last graduation day. We can walk out of the grungy doors of this decaying house. This sad excuse for an abode. We can walk in through pearly gates. Into our real home. Around strangers from the same Father. Around friends we've never met. and siblings that we never even knew that we had.
"In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am..." -John 14:2-3
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