A Place Called “Home”

A Place Called “Home”

I was coming into town a little too fast. It was my first week on the job, and I was heading from my parent's place back into Urbana on the Fourth of July weekend to enjoy my first Independence Day celebrations in my new town.

I felt so alive as I hugged the turn in my Dodge Charger. That car drove as hot as the July sun, and my life was getting exciting. I had my first big job, apartment, dog, and girl I was hoping to marry one day.

The cop I passed didn’t seem to care whether or not I was in a good mood.

It was the first and only ticket I have ever received.

Even though he tried, he couldn’t crush my spirits. Life was just too good. Although, I wasn’t looking forward to paying the fine.

Kitchen Tables

The furniture that dressed my first apartment on Gwynne Street was a little embarrassing. Visitation is critical for a young pastor with no money, stove, or cooking gear. Anytime I could invite myself over or out for a meal, I did, in the name of ministry. But occasionally, I had to cook for myself.

That meant microwave foods, my only homemade hot meal source. So I set the machine on the floor in the kitchen and made a couple of boxes of mac and cheese.

The ping gave me the go-ahead to receive my piping-hot toxic noodles. I sat in my only chair in the house, a folding camping chair, and set my bowl on the kitchen table.

The table was, of course, the cardboard box the microwave came in.

A “House” is not a “Home”

Finally, the day came when Olga and I looked toward marriage, and she made grand threats about me getting a place for us to start a life together. She wanted a house.

So, I searched far and wide for a house to fit my budget. There was no down payment, and I could only afford as low as a mortgage gets, there were only two that fit. The first had no floor or working furnace (I was looking in January). The other place at least had heat. I chose the second.

I am still not sure what Olga thought when she first toured the place, and honestly, I don’t remember everything she said. I am pretty sure she said something about her hopes and dreams dying… No, just kidding. But I don’t think it is what she would have picked.

It needed a new water heater, a new roof, a new furnace, new appliances, etc. It was a constant labor of love. At one point, or maybe several, I am sure we would have done anything to move out of that house and into an apartment, RV, or tent. Anything.

What is a Home?

But then Josiah was born. And Micah. And the house started not looking so bad, and the fixes were not so scary. Josiah began to talk and started to say things like, “I want to go home.”

Home. The place that, in his mind, was not a money pit but a place full of treasure.

It wasn’t chaotic; it was his playground.

It wasn’t broken; it was where Daddy and Mommy took broken things to make them whole.

It wasn’t old and dingy; but a castle stuffed with lively adventures.

It is where he and his brother learned to walk, mumble and talk, throw paint everywhere, and have church friends come and visit.

It was home. A place of consistency in a life that is constantly in motion. It is a place of rest, comfort, love, and joy.

 It’s the People

Our home never felt like home until our good memories were inextricably linked to that place. We traveled so much, saw so many people, and did so many things; our house was just a large and expensive bed.

But once we started having church folk over, our connection to them and our house became linked. A core memory became carving pumpkins in our little living room, griddling out for guests, or making sourdough bread to hand out.

Once we had kids to crawl and run and germ up every corner of the house, our love became linked to the house. The childhood of my two boys will always be tied in with that old house.

Urbana became home in the same way. We got to know the shop owners, the gym members, the trash truck drivers, the baristas, the police, and just about everyone, it felt like. And once we knew the people, Urbana became less of a small city in Ohio.

It was home.

Home is what you make it

We are leaving our home of Urbana, which has given me much time to reflect. I have learned as pastor in Urbana for five years that home will be what you make it. That you have the most influence over the place you call home.

When it is your home, you take accountability for it. No one is coming to fix that roof for you. If the plumbing leaks, you hire someone or crawl there and fix it. But it’s your home; get it done.

The same is true when you call a place home. Once you do, you take accountability and responsibility for that place. You own it, which means you are obligated to improve it. If you don’t, you will be judged by the subsequent owners. The next generation will look at the home and shake their head; did they use duct tape on that??

I love the people. I love the place. Enjoy, and be a source of joy. Choose your home, and make your mark on it when you do. Leave it better than when you got it.

Make it home.