Home

Home. One word, millions of different images in billions of peoples heads.  For some it's the sea.  For some it's a warm fire with a golden dog curled up next to it.  For some it's green sloping hills that end in a stone wall and for still others it's a long drive way with trees hanging over it. 

For me, it is a tiny, obscure town in the heart of Connecticut.  A town with crumbly rock walls, dark winding roads with no painted lines, and a people group as sturdy and reliable as the rock cliffs that rise up along the roads. 

I know I'm almost there when my sleepy eyes open and all is dark.  When I look out the mini-van window and see trees and weeds and rocks.  When an exitement fills my heart along with an uncomfortable longing to just be there.  We pass the little brown cottage with red shutters.  The big white church with green shutters.  The grave yard in which half the occupants are elevated above the others due to the slope.  The big house with the even wall..... Every turn gets us closer.  Every hill makes our hearts swell.  Then we see it.  The white picket fence glows in the moonlight along with the garden path through Gramma's flower garden.  The big, beautiful, white colonial comes into view.  The screen door opens and out poors warmth and love in the shape of my wonderful, beautiful family.  The cousins, the uncles, the aunts and the ones who started it all circle us with the love they never fail to give. 

I've lived in half a dozen houses, loved dozens of people, and tried to make anywhere that my family was my home.  But everytime CT has been my true home.  It doesn't matter how long it's been since I've been there or how much I've forgotten.  We get to those 40 acres of wood and I remember.  I hear it in the whisper of the trees and the dribble of the brook.  Home, you are home.