The Lion King soundtrack plays from the bathroom. Bath time playfully fades into bedtime. Daddy emerges from the bathroom doing an African processional tribal dance…it’s legit. I’m asking myself, “where did he learn to dance like that?” and simultaneously thanking God for this one life. Babies are giggling. These moments are magic. I cling tightly to every single one.

These little things…are building my home.

Home is such a strange thing for me. I had to study the concept of home in an English 102 class in college. I’ll never forget being challenged to define “home”. We read several different books about this idea of home and how various authors perceived it. The whole idea has stuck with me for the past 18 years.

What is home?

I love to look at houses. Any house. Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll even bluntly just ask if I can come see your house. I feel like houses tell a story and I’m always curious to know what your house might tell me about you. I am guilty of staring longingly into my favorite houses in the evening. Seeing the glow of a lamp or the tv and wistfully thinking how nice it must be to just be home.

I’m on a journey of sorts to finally answer the question…What is home? I find little snippets and pieces. I am assembling them into a definition that I sorta kinda really love.

Home.

Where there is spam and marshmallow cream in your babies toy grocery cart because Grammy and Papa took them shopping in your kitchen. 3XL pajamas and a cup of hot cappuccino at 11 o’clock at night. A safe place to cry (finally). A 10 minute nap during bottle and a movie. A good morning hug I can feel in my bones. A bowl of Raisin Bran with bananas. A lion ride into the bath. Snuggy bear and warm clothes out of the dryer. Peekaboo. Unexpected foot rubs. Kisses from little mouths through the gate. Car rides. Gentle Ace pets. Canneee (candy). I wuv you the most. Stomp it out and run run run…naked. Stars. The deep inhale. The hot tub.

You.

Them.

Me.

These little things. A life I love. A soft place to land. My home.