Ramona here, musing about the meaning of "home." Grace, one of my babysitters, lived in the house in which she’d been born. She inherited it from her parents, and planned to leave it to her daughter – who had also been born in the house and still resided there with her new husband.
Try as I might, I could not comprehend what it would be like to live in one place your entire life. While the idea of having to move filled Grace with sheer terror, the idea of being stuck in one house for many years made me shudder with an odd sort of claustrophobia.
My family moved when I was two. Then again when I was five. And 10 and 14. I moved at 18, 22, 24, 25, 28, 36, 38, 41, and 49. Now I’m about to move again, for the 14th time. I’m getting pretty good at it.
This time, I’m getting rid of almost everything I own. Furniture, books, clothes. Some I’m selling, some I’m giving away. What’s left will go in storage as the house sells and I figure out what to do next. I’m not sure why, but I feel led to do this.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that “home” is like “church.” It’s not about the building. For me, it’s about the refuge I create with family, friends . . . and God. And no matter where I land, I know He’ll be there.