I used to think home was a house. A porch light. A certain smell in the kitchen. And then life moved me around enough times that I had to learn the truth the hard way: home was never the walls. It was who was standing inside them.
Think about the prodigal son for a second. He didn't run back to a zip code. He wasn't longing for a specific roof over his head. He was running toward his father — toward the one person who would see him coming from a long way off and take off running to meet him (Luke 15:20). That's home. Not four walls. Open arms.
Maybe that's you right now. Maybe your "home" doesn't feel like home anymore — not because the furniture changed, but because the person who made it feel safe is gone, or distant, or never really showed up the way you needed them to. I want you to hear me: that ache isn't you being dramatic. You're grieving something real. God wired us for belonging, not just for shelter.
Here's the good news, friend. Before home was ever a person you could lose, it was a Person who can't be lost. "Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations" (Psalm 90:1). Not a place. Not even a person, in the end — a Person with a capital P, who was home before you had a house, and who stays home after everyone else leaves.
So if you're far from the people who used to feel like home, or you're building a new kind of home from scratch right now — with a spouse, a friend, a grandbaby on your hip — let this be your reminder today: you don't have to find the perfect house to feel settled. You have to find the presence that makes any room feel like enough. Start there. Everything else gets easier to build after that.
If today's word stirred something in you, Still, Small Voice was written for exactly this kind of quiet ache, and Grace Unfolding walks with you through a whole year of days like this one. Come find me on Instagram too, @mommajscozycottage — I'd love to hear what home means to you today.
With so much love,
Momma J 🤍