I’m going home today. It has been almost a year, and the thought of being with my family fills me with warmth. The whole idea of ‘home’ has always intrigued me. Because home is not just an arrangement of bricks, it is also your father’s smile, your mother’s love, your sister’s hug. But what if this arrangement of bricks is different each time you visit it? Would you still call it home? My parents have shifted to a new house since I last visited them, hence this time, ‘home’ to me is equally familiar and strange. The room in which I wrote my first novel, the floor on which I practiced dance, the color of the walls I so passionately hated; none of these belong to the ‘home’ I’m going back to. But giving up my childhood home was necessary, for all of us.
I wonder how many more homes I will live in, in this lifetime; how many more ‘homes’ will feel strange, because of unfamiliar buildings and unfamiliar people. But then I realize that home is never really on Earth. As Billy Graham once said, “My home is in heaven, I’m just traveling through this world”. Heaven is where we will be completely at peace, where we can sing and dance and praise God without wondering if all of it is temporary. Heaven is the only permanent home, the only home we can call home.