Because sometimes home is not a street address

The engine grinds to a halt and we wheel across the tarmac. The lights wink at me from behind the thick plane window and my stomach does a running roundoff cartwheel like the ones my sister and I used to do in the backyard.

I have come home.

(photo: hannah byrnes)

It's not where I grew up.

It's not where I live now.

It's not where the letters come and go, or where I curl up in sweaters as October slowly fades into November and it's not where I drink tea late at night while dreaming story ideas and whispering questions.

Washington, DC is the city where I spent four months and found my heart. It's the place where I held out my hands, opened from seasons of exhaustion and uncertainty, and suddenly, God filled them with love and friendship and joy. It's the city where I learned that sometimes, all that He wants for you to do is turn to Him and say, "It's marvelous!"

There are always these places, even for those of us who wander in and out of homes and down empty alleys and across marshes full of mud. There are always places where the wind picks up and the air changes to smell like harvest and we are suddenly full to overflowing, suddenly bright and beaming.

I hold this place tight in my chest, and as we drive past the Capitol Building glowing against the black sky, something inside me shouts out - "Welcome back, Hilary!"

We never leave the places we love - we carry them with us. We carry them in our heart. 

I have come home to the place I found Him.

Sometimes, home is not a street address.

(photo: mandie sodoma)

Love,
Hilary