Being Home…

What is the anchor that is always consistent in recollection? Spending more time in St. Louis, sleepy memories of childhood begin to awaken. I watch my kiddos grow in the reflection of the values and understanding that I was raised with, but infused with my own nuances and life experiences.  “You lived there?” I hear them say from the back seat. I look at the house where I grew up having spent 15 of my formative years within its walls. I look at the house and it appears hollow almost deserted. This can’t be the home that my parents tended with such care, the street that saw more games of kick the can and green ghost than it saw vehicles, the place where no matter what happened in my world, there was a sense of safety and acceptance.  I look upon the old house and realize the life that was so present within its walls was the abundant love and care my parents created and sustained. Ayla’s voice rings in my ears. “Mom, I love our house. I always want to live here.” I am reminded of the same love I carried for the house on Laurel Crest. As a child, I knew I too would raise my children there. But with growth comes change and I now realize my home is where my relationships live. It followed my mom until she passed, it still rests in St. Louis with my dad, it mingles with friends after a weekend away and it is being built daily in the life that unfolds with my kids. Being home is being where love resides.