The Word Home (Part 2)

Home and people’s writing pieces and thoughts on the word continued—



Home is a place where I can be all that I am

Home is a place where

parents sit and listen

I stand in my kitchen

And after all’s said and done

We embrace


Home is people who speak with their eyes

Its okay

You’re enough

You’re not too much

Never a burden to say it

And they say it and say it and say it

Until its real


Home is people I return to

Who welcome me

With word and hug and free place to breathe

To recount the day, big and small

my heart, cut and raw

Never in a rush for me to end


Home is where the trees are


Home is the lived-in space, not perfect

Falling apart a little, it should be

Not for show or picture

Only for the people in it,

For the home is for any who call it

Home, blesses all within its walls


Home is where the trees are


The trees stand tall in my back yard

Shading, protecting, glorifying

And my people are my trees

Resting, defending, providing

Wherever they are and wherever the trees root deep

Is home to me

Katie Lynch 




Forever embedded

In these

Brick walls


Forever engrained

On these

Wooden floors

The echo of

Dancing feet

Sweet singing

Wisdom whispered

Over slow


Filled with


The ease

Of freedom

This home

Has taught

Me who I am

How to love

When to speak

Always burned

Into memory

A seal

Upon this

Time of life


All that I learned


All that I felt

This home

Has been

My safe place

These people

Have been

My saving grace

Grace Gamache 


Last night I moved into Athens for the last time – trusting that my advisor has not lied to me. Muscle memory took over as I subconsciously made all the turns to reach my Athens home. My 3rd during college. I was greeted with hugs and visitors and a burrito. My trunk filled for the 4th time, clothes I won’t wear the majority of, books I still may not open, and pictures that will remain in their envelopes yet again. It’s all part of how I’m leaving my cookie crumb trail. How I’m acquiring and possessing Home. Home is a collection. The tangibles, the intangibles, the moments and places. People that occupy the most honest and raw part of my being. The night before I sleep 1 last time this summer in my childhood room next to my childhood dog who has recently lost his hearing. MumsAy walks up the driveway and greets me the same wAy she Always has. These are the last few months of her job. She is thrilled about her retirement and is moved to live near her sisters. I’ve never known my home without her. Her filled bookcases fixtures of the room I ran to when I woke scared. I pass neighborhoods on the way out with houses with families who raised me too. Who continue to do so all the same. Their children are foundations of who I am. They are pieces of security that grew up next to me, hand in hand, adding to our definition of safety.
I get chills on my drive into Athens, muttering the words, “this is good.”
Athens presents a different sense of safety and Home. Like how you suddenly feel towards a nice person who helps you find your mom in the grocery store. I’ve pitched my tent in a lot of places in Athens. Each place adding to my sense of Home like a monsoon.
I guides I’m building a mansion. That’s the best way to put my developing sense of home. My mansion gets a new addition with each person, memory and return address the marks the left hand corners of my outgoing letters for a month or year at a time. My mansion is occupying more real estate that I know my heart possessed. And I’ll tell you, it’s still growing and beautifying and deepening and the wildflowers in the front yard are growing taller. I sleep well in this home.
Lindsay Webb 



Home to me has always been a word that I love to use, but also a word that I struggle to define. I have resided in many different houses over years. Changing my “home life” used to really scare me. I used to dread packing and moving. Sometimes, if the enemy is trying to get to me, the word “home” brings up the phrase “two homes, one child”. Is mom’s house my home? Or is dad’s house my home? Which home address should go on my license? Which home has my favorite bedding? My favorite picture frames? I start to wonder what home means to me if I cannot put it into one little neat box in my head…


…but, at this stage of my life, I now believe that the word “home” is worthy of a whole lot of celebration. It is such a simple, yet significant word. It is so much more than an address. Home is not defined by the belongings and decorations that fill it or by the challenges and storms that try to shake it. Yeah, circumstances change and sometimes it can seem like things will never return to what you used to know. Yet, the beautiful parts that make a house a home lie within the joy of sharing a common ground with the people who mean the most to you in this world. I love how my home – whether I am talking about the house in Athens that I just moved into with six of the biggest blessings of my time in college, or my dad’s house that he moved into my freshman year of college, or my mom and stepfather’s house where we just combined families less than a year ago – is somewhere where I am accepted and adored for who I am. My unique quirks that make me who I am are not only allowed but appreciated. The outside world’s standards that I try to measure up to have no meaning because of the safety that exists at home. When life sometimes feels like a roller coaster, home is the unswerving, soothing lazy river ride.


Home reminds me of unconditional love, continuous freedom, arms open wide, uncontrollable laughter, and memories that make my heart smile big. Home is where brokenness is allowed, and wounds are healed with time. Home means falling asleep under the same roof as the people that you do this life with – in the stillness and in the craziness. Home is where our God always resides so that darkness is cast out and light floods in. And, the best part of home is that we get to take pieces of it with us wherever we go as we live and move and wait to join in with the King at our permanent home.

Hanna Tew 


My thoughts on home can go forever. They span wide sprouting off like roots reaching deep in different stretches of land, all grounded in the same soil.

I think back to the home I grew up in.

Mine has always been open.
Come over for supper. Have your fill. When you’ve had enough, mama will give you some more.
Come over to sleep. There’s always extra space. Not named a guest room, cause it’s your room.
Come over to visit. You’ll for sure be entertained. The mess in our kitchen and the chaotic chatter may comfort you or it may just drive you wild. Either way, don’t just visit, come over to stay.

Come over. Be at home.

I think of how many of my friends are named by this word.

They are homeless they say. I’d say differently.


I know a guy and he calls me squirrel. He makes me smile when I think about him. He’s been living here in this town for more years than I’ve known of it. They say he’s homeless but they just don’t know. He’s made himself a home far off between the trees, a happy home.
I have a friend and I call her Rich. Some people used to call her homeless but she got a house last year. I’d say she had a home far before then.

I have another friend. She’s a real good mama, sometimes too good of one it hurts her. She’s been in between houses for years and can’t seem to keep one. She is homeless they say. It’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard but I don’t think she’s found her home.


I think about the ink on my neck.

I was 18 and I was ready to go home. I was tired of this world. It all felt tasteless, even bitter, compared to tastes of home. My forever home.

“To live is Christ to die is gain” To die is gain. Yes. Gain. To go home.

I am 22 now and I am ready to live. I can’t tell you all the time I’ve felt home, living.

“To live is Christ to die is gain” To live is Christ. Yes. Christ. Christ, my home.

My home where I breath; where I hide; where I revive. Where all are invited. All invited to breath, to hide, to revive.   

Home keep calling me. I’ll answer and walk a little closer. I’ll turn my head back and share the beckon. Others come with me. Come over. Come home.

Home keep soothing me. I’ll sit back and sink a little deeper. I’ll lift my chin and close my eyes. Knowing, believing you are beckoning all.

Come over. Be at home.

Rachel Deese

When I think about home, I think about the people before the place. I think about my roomates in Athens, my sisters, and my parents. I think it is the most incredible thing when home surrounds people more than a building. I think of home as the feeling of sharing life with people that we love most, the feeling of taking care of people and knowing that you are taken care of. It’s a feeling of being able to be completely and totally yourself. Athens has quickly become a new home, a safe place, a place where I feel so much comfort and freedom – and I think that is one hundred percent because of the people here. Although my home has changed a lot, I think that I will also forever hold onto the places that have felt like a home. The places where there have been christmas trees, card games, and gilmore girls episodes. I think that home travels inside of me and within the space of my family. It is so beautiful that you really can take home with you wherever you go and turn any new place into home.

Annabel Farley

I can remember the comfort of knowing when I came home from school that my mom and dog would be waiting for me there

I can remember the fun of jumping on our couch until it was ruined while my dad played my grandpas old driving CDs

I can remember the way home felt big and overwhelming with the change as hundreds of neighbors stood on our front lawn to welcome my parents and my new brother home from Russia

I can remember the eagerness for that same place to not be my home as I was ready to be on my own in college

I can remember a dorm not feeling at all like home but solely a place to sleep

I can remember friends who started off seeming distant but soon felt like home

I can remember calling a sorority house home and truly feeling that because of the unexpected crazy love there

I can remember the hurt but understanding in my mom’s eyes when I said “going home” to mean Athens

I can remember the discomfort of telling friends that I lived in that huge sorority house while they’ve been sleeping on benches and the steps of churches

I can remember the way they loved me and allowed me into their lives and their homes anyway

I can remember the joy when some of these friends got physical homes of their own

I can remember the confusion of wondering why I got to move into a big home with college friends while some friends I know are still searching for the comfort of a home

I can remember the ways my people have made me feel at home in the seasons and confusion and change.

Mary Hathaway Lipscomb


The cold water didn’t make me rush through the dishes any faster. I think I will always be this way: slow, gentle, no matter the season. My fingers turn red every night against the dishes in my hands but I know it will be over soon and I honestly don’t want it to be. This pace of life, despite the cold summer, matches my pace of mind. I get to wrap up in all of my clothes and press my red face against the Guatero. The cold is everywhere and I have come to appreciate the consistency. I can get in and out of bed in the same way. I can pour two scoops of instant coffee with my shaking hands and give the Micro driver my pesos in the same way. I can hold my body close in a 10 am class and hold my friends in the mercado in the same way. My English/Spanish mix is my normal here, my way of life. It mirrors this season, a mix of warm and cold. Can I find a home in this summer/winter? Can I find a home in this mix of culture? I am still trying, still washing the dishes, knowing this will end soon.

Alex Washburn 

Home is where the heart is

I remember the first time I felt at home. I remember the scent of the vintage house, with the old carpet. I remember the waterbed in the room with the big television stand. I remember the bath time when I’d make the bar of soap disappear in my wash rag. I remember the wholeness that surrounded the house even if there was no whole to begin with. The first time I felt at home, has been the only time my heart has defined home.

I was raised in my grandmother’s home, which was not mine. I would wake up, bathe, go to school from here. I would do my homework, be taught the right and wrongs. But this was never my home. I never felt like it was my home. My heart never set roots down here.

My father lived on the hill not too far but a drive from my grandmothers. I would stay here often when I was younger. I would spend holidays here. Wake up and go get McDonalds with my father, cook dinner, enjoy watching football or Nascar here.

My home.

Where my first puppy stayed. Where my mom found her love and lost it here. I guess you can say I lost it here too.

This home was like no other to me. I remember the nights where the voices of arguments embraced me like a gentle hug from your mother. I remember the Christmas’s where the smell of fire and candy filled the room. I remember the moment where I was happy, and my siblings were happy, and my father and mother were happy.

My father.

This is my home. I lost this feeling for a long time after my father passed. The feeling of your heart being ripped out of your chest. The feeling of anger, grief, disbelief filled me. I was not able to sleep. I did not make it to the funeral. I was homeless.

My home.

I remember all the memories of growing up here and exploring outside with the sheep and kittens that would surround me. I remember the collection of cabbage catch kids I’d get every year for Christmas.

 I remember this home.

Not where I reside at the moment. Not where my grandmother stays. Not the foster homes. Not the places where my friends stay where their mom tells you to make yourself at home.

That will never be the home my heart longs it to be.

Santanna Cole

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