A very rare song, in that it needs no words to get across the emotion it’s trying to convey. It moves under your skin and...
"Did Brother Zachariah just steal our cat?"
I’m studying my books.
You’re studying his looks.
I’m dreaming of grad schools ahead.
You’re dreaming up your next home instead.
I lose sleep because residents are wild.
You’re saving up for your first child.
It has always been a dream of mine to marry young. I used to even want to be married by 18! At 22 years old, I sit back and laugh at that thought. Boy, that would have been stupid. I would never have had the chance to become the person I was now…or maybe I would.
Either way…my dearest friends from college are all married. Another good friend plans to propose between Christmas and New Year. Between that time, I’ll be completing my grad school application.
On May 10, 2014 I will receive my diploma. I plan to continue on in my education.
While I am so happy and blessed to have gotten so far…
a big part of my heart. That part that’s always wanted to marry young, would almost still trade the opportunity to shake hands with the president of a university as I walk across the stage for taking my husband’s hand at the front of an altar.
is probably one of the best compliments I have ever received.
She hasn’t read my writing, and she knows I can’t draw or create worth spit, but she has said “the way you look and describe things…you have the soul of an artist whether you see that or not.”
I have always tried to make “home” an abstract concept. Home should be a place that your heart is at. It should be a place where you feel most alive and loved. It’s not about your material possessions.
Or if you prefer a “Christian” answer, this is not home. Home is heaven.
I strongly agree with both of the above statements.
However this weekend while I was with my family for the Thanksgiving holiday, I realized something about “home” for the first time.
Home is where I feel alive. I might not always feel the most loved, but home is where my bedding and my books are at. Home is the place I have put my material belongings and carefully prepared to welcome guests and friends into. It is a place where I kick off my shoes and put up my feet.
I loved every minute of being with my family and being away from the duties of school work, but after 5 grueling hours of traffic and heavy rain, there’s nothing like driving into the city where you live. There’s nothing more captivating than the bright lights of a dozen sky scrapers welcoming you back to a place you have fallen in love with.
There is something about dragging 4 bags up three flights of stairs and you’re ambushed by rambunctious and joyful girls who rush at you to help you carry your bags to your front door and then proceed to greet you with hugs, excited to see you after 4 days.
Then, there is something satisfying about closing your door to the world and spending time in solitude on a couch you bought in a room lit by strands of lights and filled with books collected over the years…
home is where your heart is, but home is also where you’ve planted roots.
This cold, rainy city…
This loud, populated, draining resident hall,
this small, messy, book-filled room.
This is home.
I am happy.