Home. That's a word that has different meanings to different people. To me it was always a good word. Perhaps that's why I don't mind being at home now as an adult. This is the door to my childhood home. I was five months old when my parents bought the house and I stayed until I got married. This door was the entryway to family and love. There are a lot of good memories behind that door. While there are a few negative things I can remember from my childhood, there are really very few.
I remember when my dad told us he had lost his job. Yes, things were uncertain, but we stuck together as a family, and our church family at the time stuck with us as well.
I remember when my mom told me her father, my grandfather, had passed away from a heart attack. This was another sad time, but again, we were together.
There were fights among us siblings. There were also the three day long Monopoly games.
There was the occasional argument with one of my parents. The one that sticks out in my mind the most was not the offense, but the punishment. I was not allowed to watch Little House on the Prairie that night. Whatever I did, I'm sure I never did it again!
Home is where my mom read much of my early writing, giving criticism and encouragement to help me succeed.
Home is where my sisters and I would have food fights after my parents left the dinner table.
Home is where we entertained friends with food and fellowship.
Home is where we laughed.
Home is where we cried.
Home is where we celebrated.
Home is where my mom passed away.
Home is where I accepted the Lord as my Savior.
Home is a special place to me. Even though someone else lives in "my" house now, I still have all the memories, and no one can take those away.