My Home

November 2, 2010
By HeatherHam SILVER, Yorba Linda, California
HeatherHam SILVER, Yorba Linda, California
5 articles 0 photos 6 comments

Unde este casa mea? A home is not merely a place to rest at night or a location to park the car. It is a captivatingly place that fashions the pieces of character that, particularly stitched together, create the dweller. I, Heather, have many homes; I live in the bayous of New Orleans, the community of Romania, and shanties of Mexico.

To be a nomad of the world has instilled in me more of a home than most people will ever encompass. Among superfluous shrubs, humid habitat, and an atmosphere of potential, I found myself in New Orleans. There, I smelt the salty tears of desperation shed by my brothers. Yes, they lived amongst beautifully limp willows as well as fireflies, but they were lacking the Creator of these marvelous majesties. I resided there to rebuild homes and spirits. By simply offering a helping hand, we demonstrated Christ. Due to the smiles smeared across the faces of the family living in the newly painted home, I live in New Orleans.

However, I reside in a much more remote abode as well. Beyond the tangy gelato of Hungary lies the bitter country of Romania. The extent of my life there is unimportant compared to how it created a new character deep within me; before I was hollow and now I am filled. I lived in the church and amongst the natives. Despite my cultural ignorance, they took me in and taught me. They filled me up with knowledge of love and compassion; shown sole through their companionship. They merged together as a many delicate pieces of ornately furbished glass fuse together to stand as a stained glass window In every act of fellowship, I can be found living in Romania.

Again, my dwelling places are several. This particular place lies on hills of dirt and eroded hope. With a waffle hammer and nails, I strive to construct a home for my Mexican brothers who, otherwise, would live in an inconsequential shelter. This potential shanty would be created with no more than unforgiving cardboard from some empty Coca Cola boxes and leftover duct tape. Praise be to God, this would no longer be their destiny. Even in the new home though, the walls are established with splintered wood that bends and bows and the tarred roof is tacked down no more evenly than the stars sitting in the sky. But for seven days, I gave all that I was to assemble these flawed pieces of the accommodation in high hopes of restoring and rebuilding futures. Now, in every sheltered night sleep of my foreign brothers, I live in Mexico.

It was once stated, “Home is home, be it ever so humble.” There is often not only one home that is to take the credit for the formation of a being. Where you live is where your heart is, whether it be physically or emotionally tied. I know where my heart resides therefore I will never be obligated to again ask, “Where is my home.”

The author's comments:
This is a piece I wrote when I was asked where my home is. I know my address and where I keep my clothes, but where is my heart? I searched for a long time and concluded with some interesting locations in which I claim my home.

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