From the archives:
Home has worn many faces for us.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the first one.
A single wide trailer tucked into the hills of Appalachia.
Red carpet that never quite looked clean, no matter how much I tried.
Wood paneling that made every room feel a little darker, a little smaller.
It was not a dream home, but it was what we could afford, and it held our beginnings with a kind of humble faithfulness.
Then came a couple more little houses in North Carolina, each one a chapter.
One had a small porch, and it is forever sacred to me because it is the porch we walked past bringing Olivia home.
I remember the feeling of carrying her through the doorway, that quiet trembling joy.
A home becomes holy the moment you bring a baby into it.
Another house had a big garden tub and lavender carpet, and it was there we became a family of four.
I can still remember how the air felt in that season, how full the days were, how quickly the rooms filled with toys and laundry and laughter.
It did not matter what the carpet looked like.
What mattered was the life growing inside those walls.
Then a calling took us across the country, and home changed again.
We landed in that tiny cottage with the sunroom, the one where I learned how to count the joy.
The winter there was sharp and lonely at times, and yet the sunroom held the bright noise of little ones playing.
I learned in that house that joy is not something you wait for, it is something you choose, something you gather like kindling on hard days.
There was the one with the blue roof and the loft, where Jackson came home and learned to crawl.
I can still picture him on the floor, his little hands pressing forward, his knees fumbling until motion became memory.
Homes are not just structures.
They are witnesses.
They watch children become.
Then came the one with the picture windows and the clothesline out back, where we brought home both little girls.
I remember hanging tiny dresses in the sun and feeling the soft ache of gratitude, realizing how quickly life was multiplying.
The light coming through those windows felt like a promise.
Ordinary days, ordinary chores, and yet everything was full of meaning.
Another move brought us to the prairie of North Dakota.
Rural life.
Wide skies.
Wind that could humble a person.
That home held a different kind of beauty.
It was where the kids played cops and robbers and rode their bikes until evening, where we learned to garden and stick together through good times and bad.
It was where we learned that closeness is not found in perfect circumstances, but in shared life.
In meals.
In routines.
In the steady decision to stay faithful.
And now we have this little bungalow we call home.
The first home we bought and call our very own.
Shuttered windows.
Original hardwood floors.
Corners worn by footsteps and time.
This is the house where we have said goodbye to three of our five birdies.
The house where suitcases have been packed and tears wiped quickly, where the quiet has grown louder as children have grown older.
I did not know when we moved in that it would become a goodbye house in some ways.
But it has.
And still, it has been good.
We have lived in many homes.
But I do not have a favorite.
Because the truth is, none of those walls were the home.
They were simply the containers.
Home has always been the people inside.
We were all recently under one roof again for a little while.
For our daughter’s wedding.
And for a few short days home meant more.
Because everyone I love most are in one place.
Because the sound of their voices and footsteps filled the rooms with familiar joy.
Home has many names.
Many zip codes.
Many front doors.
But the deepest definition never changes.
Home is where I am with you all.
I do not have a favorite house.
You all are my home.
I do not have a favorite person.
You all are my favorite everything.
And no matter what walls we live inside, no matter where life carries us next, the truest home I will ever know is when we are together.
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