Home: A Definition

In less than 100 days, I’ll set out to wander the road—selling the family house which I’ve inhabited for 43 years. For the last nine years and three months, I’ve welcomed strangers into my home—those walking their journeys in life. Now, it is time to say goodbye and find my new home. But what is “home”?

This question lingers uncomfortably because I must also ask myself: Where is home? How will I find it? How will I recognize it when I see it? I must define “home” if I am ever to find another. In my search for land, I’ve considered many states, from Ohio to Georgia, and all around the crescent of the Appalachian mountain range. With every selection, the discomfort returns: “Why do I want to live here? How is this different or better?”

Home is alluded to in so many phrases in our language: “Come home,” “Home is where the heart is,” “Our eternal home,” and “You can never go home again.” Is your home a place? There is the homeless vs. unhoused debate. Are both without a home? Is home your house? Is it the place you lay your head?

In researching life on the road, I’ve discovered the stories of many who have given up the traditional house to live in RV’s, minivans, houseboats, box trucks, and cabins in the woods. A woman in Arizona confessed that after a year of traveling in an RV, she and her husband found a piece of land they loved and built their 2,800-square-foot dream home. But after living there for a year, she began to miss life on the road. They are selling their home, buying an RV, and heading back out. For them, a “house is not a home.” Home is something more.

What about the phrase “you can never go home again”? It suggests that as one grows up, enters college, and joins the real world, one can no longer be confined to a previous life. So, is home a state we can grow beyond?

Is it a city or community where we spent our childhood? “Home is where the heart is.” Where we played with friends, graduated from high school, met our first love, planted a tree, learned to drive? This sounds like home.

Perhaps, “Home is where you lay your head.” But what of the stories of foster kids who sneak out nightly or lock themselves in their rooms or closets to avoid crossing paths with their abusers? Or what of the confessions of natural-born children who sacrifice themselves for the safety of their brothers or sisters? Some escape even before they are teens because the streets are more comfortable. Others leave as soon as they feel they can care for themselves—moving far away, never to look back.

Jeff, another RV’er in his prime, fled his conventional American life. He grew weary of the conflict and competition of his former world. Seeking peace, he chose to boondock far from cities and his and his work place. It seems he was searching for a place he could feel at home.

In the book of Hebrews, the writer presents the histories of those called the Cloud of Witnesses—an amazing collection of individuals who stood out by their actions. Among this collection are those who refused their inheritance, chose to be mistreated, toppled kingdoms, received back their dead, defeated giants, suffered imprisonment, and endured torture, refusing to accept release. These are people we are told to emulate. They are called full of faith. They acknowledged that they were exiles, strangers seeking a home not connected to their origins. The lesson here is that they all died without reaching their homeland—a kingdom of peace and life, abiding in the presence of God, a place without fear, tears, death, or dissatisfaction—but they saw it from afar and followed the path that would secure their arrival at home.

I could conclude that home is defined by its connections and is a safe space where you feel a sense of belonging, comfort, and acceptance, but the definition would still be lacking. I could declare with enthusiasm that home is a place with family, where you can grow to become the best version of yourself. Yet even this is insufficient, for every household has conflict, arguments, and disappointment. Is any life spared from vulnerability, failure, and isolation? These trials occur, but we are not temporarily displaced from home.

No, home is neither a building, a location, or a fixed state. Try as one may, it is not a destination to be found.  I conclude that home is an activity. The most compelling evidence of this is found in examining the word “hearth.” Home,  like a hearth is the space we select to ignite the fire of our lives. We fill this space with our desires—often pets, friends, family, and fellowship. Our connections intensify as we add kindling—food, conversation, laughter. As each log is carefully placed in the hearth, while others are stored for the future,  we give love to those we gather to ourselves. We are careful to build them up so that they have an ample supply of courage, hope, knowledge, and strength. It is with this effort that the heart is made at home, and security is instilled. From this cultivated space, growth emerges.

A roaring fire grows dim for lack of stoking — neglect collapses the structure of a home. Trials and threats come. Relationships, health, property, and prosperity will, at times, be in peril. That is the nature of home. To combat it, we must maintain its integrity. We must reach out to those logs that have dimmed because they have burned through and draw them back to the flame. If a fire is to last through the cold night—our lives—we must rise in the wee hours to tend it. Though we are tired, hungry, angry, weak, or weary, we, like the witnesses, must be resolute. We must place a mechanism to tend to it when we are absent. And when we are no longer able, and our temples grow ashen, those who have been ignited by us will add new logs, laying them according to their desire, and build their home. It is no wonder that a hearth was once the center of the home.   “Home is where the Hearth is”.