My house is not a home. My house looks like a home on the outside but it is nothing on the inside. I don’t recall ever living in a home or getting to know a house long enough. I’ve spent my entire life constantly moving. The most I’ve ever spent in a house is 4 years, just enough time to build relationships and to feel comfortable. But once I’ve found good friends and good people, it all gets stripped away.

Houses filled with boxes is not a home. Houses filled with apprehension is not a home. Houses filled with unfulfilled hearts is not a home. Houses filled with lost memories is not a home.

I envy those who say that they’ve lived in the same house all their life. They have had enough time to have a home. They have seen their friends grow up and become the people they are today. They have had time to feel comfortable.

I long to have a home. I long to live in a place long enough to make friends that last. I want to build relationships with the people I’m surrounded with. I want to be comfortable enough to ask my neighbor to dinner. I want to be comfortable enough to promise things for the future. I want to stay in a place long enough where my local coffee shop knows my order.

To my future kids, I’d love to give them a home. I want to have them grow up in the same home all of their life. I want their home to be a safe place. I don’t want them to grow up in fear of losing every relationship they’ve built. To lose everything they have. I want them to feel cozy in their neighborhood. In their school. In their home.