The Word Home (Part 1)

I every so often will ask people to write on a prompt or a word. This past month I asked people to write about their thoughts, stories, and reflections on the word home. I have been receiving emails each week of different writing pieces on the word and each piece has made this collaboration one powerful conversation about how home means something to every single one of us. 

We each have our own personal associations, emotions, memories, and definitions on the word home. And that is why only you can write out your thoughts on the word. We need each story, each thought, and each connection to the word. Each written piece reminds us that home means something to each of us. It’s our common ground to humanity.

With that being said, this writing collaboration has become one of the most special ones. I hope these writings bless you as much as they have blessed me. Keep writing my friends. Your words and stories are powerful. 

It feels very fitting to share this writing collaboration on a day of remembering a dear friend Mr. Ray- a man who made you feel at home the moment you met him. He is also the reason I first asked people to share their thoughts. So this one’s in honor of him.

Every month is a new place. A new country, new surroundings, cultures and people. And, it never fails that by the second week, I say, “hey I’ll meet you at HOME tonight” or “are you coming back HOME.” And I stop because it just flies out of my mouth so casually and i stop because I’m even more aware that I use the specific word, home.
Because home is deeper than casual. Home is safe. Home is special. Home is supernatural.
See when you’re able to have a place that you can call home it’s only by the grace of God. Jesus, our Jesus, tells us the cost of following Him may lead us (because even He) wasn’t promised a place “no where to lay our heads.”
Home is the people inside the building. Home is love. Home is where you can repent, pray and praise God and only receive grace, love and truth. Home is family.

Katie Bouchie 

What is “Home”?

My first thought when I think of the word “home” is a literal building- a house. I think of 109 Carrick Way and 615 Baxter St. and 1673 S Milledge Ave.

But, I most often think of 241 Trotters Run.

My home.

In a time of moving around with my mom while growing up and then moving every year my first three years of college, 241 Trotters Run was a safe place for me, a place of comfort and familiarity. A place of memories.

Yeah, that’s exactly what “home” is. Rest. Comfort. Memories.

But, then, I think about the word “home” and I think about the places I have lived- the actual locations. Places where I have spent some of my life. Cities where I drive into and literally take a breathe of relief because I am overcome with the feeling of “being home.”

And then, I think about the word “home” and I think about the people that make it so special to me. The people I find rest in. The people I laugh with and make memories with. And the people I feel completely comfortable around- that set me free to be myself.


But, where really is my home? We moved out of 241 Trotters Run- a place I had known for 20 years of my life. I left Macon and moved to Athens, where I gained new favorite restaurants and streets. I only get to spend a couple of months of the summer in Mt. Ida at a place I love so much. And, in less than a year, I will be adding a new place to my list of homes. None of these changes come easy for me- I have a problem of being a afraid of change. But, recently, the Lord has opened my eyes to the fact that my “home” here on earth can keep on changing, and I do not have to be afraid, because my real home awaits me- eternity in heaven with Jesus Christ. Heaven. My home.

A place full of all of my favorite parts about Macon and Mt. Ida and Athens combined. A place full of people I love, who I will get to spend eternity with.


Home is Heaven. A perfect, forever home.

Morgan Maier


My mother is so kind.
She takes the old duffle from my hands as I walk through the door.
Thank goodness.
It’s heavy. I couldn’t carry it another step, stuffed full of all my bitterness.
She removes each piece, and doesn’t seem to mind that they reek of envy, and pride, and hate.
She just washes each item with perfect grace, on warm, until they shine again.
There has never been a stain she couldn’t remove.
My father is so hospitable.
He sees that sorrow and stress both made the trip with me.
No matter, he invites them in too, of course.
He asks if they’re hungry.
He hasn’t even slipped out of his work shoes.
They do not want his invitation to a family dinner though.
They were expecting a pity party in their honor.
He brings a hot meal, and sets it on the table with a smile.
They get up and leave without a word.
He looks at me,
“I think those were my least favorite friends of yours. Welcome home.”\

Becky Matthews 


Spent the summer in DC and left for a week for a business trip. Wrote this on my flight back to the district. It was really odd to fly back to a different city to go “home”.

Does it feel like I’m going home? I am unsure. What is home?

Back to all my belongings and the new life I have craved out for myself.

But my heart is in another place, a place unfinished. Will any other place be able to be home? Will it ever feel finished?

Hannah Glass

Home. Home is a place of comfort. A place where I am able to completely be myself. I believe home is not only a physical place but also a metaphorical place. Home is where my family and best friends are. It is a place where I can be in my worst state at one moment and my best state the next moment. It is a place where I can be fully real and be fully loved at the same time. This is home.

Abbey Gritters 

Life is a lot like magic
One minute it is here
And the next it is gone
Fleeting into the nothingness from which it came
We say things like
Putting down roots
When we talk about making a home
We are brazen enough to believe that permanence exists
They say ‘home is where you make it’
Or where our hearts live,
Where we plant ourselves to grow.
But they forget that we are not plants and soil is not a good home.
You see, home is not real for me
I’ve never had one
Though I’ve pretended many times
Building my house of cards waiting for them to come tumbling down again
It’s all a trick
A slight of hand
Fooling even we’ll trained eyes
Ive built a home out of paper
The problem with my paper home
Is that someone might see
And notice that I am a human
Living in a paper city
And they might ask
“Why do you live in this fake place”
And I will have no answer because it’s all that I’ve known
I don’t know how to make a real home
But the worst dream comes true
When I wake up and see that
The world is real and home was there all along.
And I was the one made of paper.
Annie Vogel

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