Home Is Where . . .

Everyone has a story.

The word home implies something different for everyone. I’m curious, always have been, about the way people live.

Some might even say, “What home?”

As the two images indicate, home can be vastly different. I believe that home has nothing to do with the structure or lack thereof.

I believe it’s all about what goes on in the home. Someone once said, “Man, you don’t want to know about my home. Our family is totally dysfunctional.”

That same person said: His mom was a drug addict, and his father worked all the time. His Dad was distant and didn’t seem to care about anything except dinner on the table at 5:30 pm sharp. If Mom were too strung out to make dinner, my Dad would blame us, the kids, for not helping and watching her.

By the way, his Dad was a famous attorney. They lived in the largest home in our town.

He and I went to school together. When I shared my story, he was shocked. He had never met someone that didn’t live in a home. I shared the fact that I was the oldest of four. My Dad was not in the picture. My Mom didn’t know anything about raising kids, how to work, or clean our space; she barely managed to get our clothes clean. That was her one chore.

I was homeless from nine and a half until I was almost thirteen. We lived behind abandoned homes, in garages where no one lived. Occasionally we would find a boarded-up home where the water was still turned on.

When I was twelve and a half, my Mom married a postman with a photographic memory. He used it to memorize mail routes and all the dirty jokes he read or heard. One day, he laid a hand hard on my sister's face. I told him to stop. He tried to hit me. I was bigger than him. A fight ensued, and I nearly choked him to death. A neighbor and my siblings pulled me off. I watched as his face went from light blue back to naturally ugly.

My Mom came home, and he declared it was “him or me.” She had to pick. I made the choice for her. I owned my own ’38 Chevy Coupe that was eighteen years old, all original and beautiful. I sold it to my Mom for $100. That bought me bus fare to Los Angeles.

Several years later, I became friends with a lad that was raised in a church environment. I asked him if he was still active in the same church. His response was, “Heavens no. I watched my parents and siblings struggle with adhering to the rules. That’s not for me. We pray to a heavenly father, and I don’t believe my heavenly Dad would want that for me.”

After seventy-five years of living, I’ve heard many stories. I spent 22 years as a minister. Ultimately, it was creating havoc within my own home.

Have you ever heard the back story of someone and thought, “Maybe my home wasn’t all that bad.”

This is why I believe that home is a state of mind. The size or location of the home is often irrelevant. How much love is in the home? Do the family members support one another?

I would love to receive your feedback and experience on this.

Your thoughts?