Home

Sitting at a kitchen table with a hot plate of pasta and talking over a television playing an animated movie in the background. Surrounded by laughter and an unspoken gentle familiarness where everything and nothing seems to matter. We pass a bowl of cut strawberries and heaping spoons of cool whip and try to forget that these moments are so limited. In the moment, this is home.

Our little family unit may be a few thousand miles apart but we’re as tight knit as can be. Growing up all we had was family, especially in the church, it always seemed unfairly that it was “us” and then “them.” It was hard to be the subjects of other people’s sin, a point that still leaves bitterness and anger stinging in my gut. We grew in, into each other, into a rather unique pack, if you will.

I always thought that we lived an incredibly dramatic life. But the more I think about it, it’s more like a really, really, really dark comedy. The kind that makes you sort of squirm and a little bit uncomfortable but still makes you feel more braver and stronger than before.

BTW, in my head, Ellen Page plays me.

Our pack is always safe. No fake fronts, no fake smiles, no expectations. And there is love. So, so, so, so much love. I hope my children have those memories. I don’t care if they remember what they did, or what presents they got, I want them to remember how they felt.

So having my family here in my house is absolutely the best thing ever. I am 100 percent whole because I can’t possible feel more at home and at peace than when they are close. Leaving is never easier. In the eight years we’ve lived a part it’s never not hurt me to my very core.

Empty chairs at my table, empty bedrooms, empty house…

Empty heart.