My first home was Austin, Texas. (Please don’t talk to me about last weekend’s Texas and Oklahoma game — too soon.) We lived in a sweet neighborhood. I remember my fourth birthday party, which was a princess tea party with fancy dishes and little mints. I remember when we brought my first puppy, Pepper, home. I remember when the spare bedroom became a nursery for my baby brother.
It was a good home.
My second home was Lamesa, Texas. We lived just down the street from South Elementary. I remember strolls home after school. I remember insisting everyone stay up all night for my 10th birthday party. I remember bringing my sister home for the first time (even though that was delayed by a car accident on the way back from the hospital).
It was a good home.
My third home was Canton, Texas. We lived in a small house next door to a cute boy, and then we moved to another house with an awesome backyard. I remember plastering my bedroom with posters out of American Girl magazine. I remember my first boy-girl party. I remember coming home from a trip to find my mom had adopted another dog, Sammie.
It was a good home, too.
My most recent home is Searcy, Arkansas. I’ve lived in a variety of dorms and apartments, all filled with warm (and a few sad) memories. I remember practicing Spring Sing moves in the hallways of Cathcart after curfew. I remember the nervous excitement that came with my first open dorm. I remember quietly finishing a puzzle with my roommate on a Saturday morning as we drank coffee.
By this count, I’ve had four wonderful places to call home, but that doesn’t feel quite right. How could I not mention White River Youth Camp, which was easily the highlight of every summer? How could I not include Nebraska or Indiana, the states that have become synonymous with the holiday season in my mind? I feel like I have a whole lot of homes.
What a blessing that is.
I’ve lived in a limited number of houses and cities. But a home is something that endures, independent of time. A home is found within memories, people and growth.
A house is occupied; a home is cultivated.
If you ever experienced a time when “home” was a negative word, I feel for you. If you’re enduring that now, I feel for you. A place like that isn’t a true home, and I’m sorry you’ve had to experience such a fact.
During our time at college, we have the opportunity to truly choose whether we cultivate a home or occupy a space. I don’t know about you, but I think simply living somewhere for four years — thinking of it as a pitstop on the way to better things — is pretty sad.
Luckily, we have every chance to make a home right where we are. We do this by connecting with people, genuinely and vulnerably. We do it by improving what was here before, doing our own part toward making a better future. We cultivate a home through intentional actions for others and with others.
When we strive to cultivate a home rather than occupy a space, especially during our time at college, we create something wonderfully long-lasting.
We create something more powerful than a physical location and something we would be happy to come home to in the future.
So, here’s to those of you who have come home to Harding this weekend — and here’s to those of us setting the foundation for homecomings in the future.