Home

And reconsidering a definition

Every time I pull up my driveway, I cry a little bit. Sometimes just a glassy eye; sometimes a full weep. It’s a blend of emotions and thoughts, for sure. I’m coming home to missing someone. Coming home to a new life that mostly looks the same, and is distinctly askew. Coming home to an emptiness that is impossible to fill. But I am okay with that. I’m okay with living with the void. It means there was once someone here who I loved deeply, who taught me how to love deeply, and made me laugh. I am grateful for the things that have been, even though there are still many moments where I try to wish it all away. Go back to 2022 when we were happy and had no idea cancer was around the corner.

It’s very conflicting.

But one of the things that has been rising above the void is that when I come home…I feel home. It’s the first time I’ve felt like my house is my home, the first time I’ve been viscerally thankful I have a building to exist in. (and I’ve been displaced and homeless, albeit briefly, 3 times) I’ve never been more grateful for a roof over my head, a place to be. A place that is now all mine. Never in a million years did I actually think I’d have my own home. Keeping it is another story, but I think I will. Or I’ll figure out how to be in a new space.

I want to take you back to a day I oddly still remember. The day I was baptized–February 2, 1986. I was ten.

My grandfather, Poppy, was an Episcopalian minister, something I’ve always been inexplicably proud of, even though for most of my life I’ve been agnostic. These days, I lean more toward atheism. But I refuse to claim absolutes. I learned this early–words like “always” and “never” are used by addicts, not people who are open-minded and extend grace. And I don’t know the truth, so I don’t even try to pretend. I am interested in learning about just about everything, but I am not a person of faith. Unless it’s simply faith that the sun will rise tomorrow. That the redbuds will bloom in March even if it’s only 40 degrees. That the birds will find the feeder within ten minutes of me filling it. That life will continue blooming and dying long after me.

Poppy gave me a beautiful leather Bible on that day in 1986. I’ve had a lot of Bibles over the years. For a long time, despite my agnosticism, I was deeply immersed in the evangelical world, and Bibles were like those underwear with the days of the week printed on them. One for every audience you could imagine. Thinking about that now makes me cringe, but when I was young, it did teach me that God could meet a person at any level, any background, any language. I still believe that is true, even though I don’t believe in a god. I do, however, believe in trying to understand all people’s perspectives.

The bible is still important to me, even though I now reject the literal interpretation the fundamental church tried to convince me of. The historical, cultural, and artistic value, as well as the ethics Jesus taught (whether he actually taught them or not), still resonate. And on the day I was baptized, what I remember the most is that Poppy taught me that the church is people. Wherever people gather, so does God. I consider that metaphorically, but it’s beautiful and valuable nonetheless.

But I’ve also been thinking about the concept a lot lately because, for me, home has always been the people, not the building.

In fifty years, I’ve lived in five states and over fifteen different buildings, but I have never lived by myself. I’ve never been my own home. But now, 143 days since my love died, I am learning how to become that. (Not going to lie, calculating 143 days is a big shock)

I’ve always been good by myself, which is bizarre considering I’ve been partnered since I was fifteen years old. But I am not built to be a lonely person. In large groups, crowded spaces, social mingling situations–forget it. That’s where I feel the least seen, the least cared about, the most over-stimulated. Alone, I am the most me.

That said, losing the person who anchors you, mirrors you, challenges you, laughs with you, cries with you, writes with you, parents with you, and makes life happen with you is a disorienting experience. Joe was my family. Our twelve years together were kind of insane, considering all of the things that happened in the world, and to us, but we bounced back again and again because we had each other. We had our home.

For the first time, I’m faced with home simply being a building. And me.

It’s already stretched me in ways I wasn’t expecting. I feel protective, proud, grateful, and determined to take care of this building, our home. When I drove up the driveway, returning from Florida, I said out loud to Joe: I’m home, baby. I feel like I’m nesting, like I did in the joys and throes of my pregnancies. And that thought has met me every single morning, and every single evening, even on the days I’m feeling broken or overwhelmed. Even when I cry myself to sleep: I am home.

And that feels sort of miraculous. The family is not gathering, but I am still home. Home is in me.

It makes me wonder if Poppy ever felt like he had a home. Or if he knew God was in him.