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I was brought up thinking that our house was where the mailbox had our name…and like everyone in my family…our house and our home…were the same.

It’s where we laughed and cried…where around the dinner table we sat…but as I’ve aged I’ve come to realize…home is much more than that.

A house is just a house…floors, room and walls with a roof above…but what makes a house a home is when it’s filled with love.

Since love is not restricted to one place…it has the ability to roam…I now understand that many of us…live their lives in mobile homes.

Because as long as we are blessed with family…a family whose love is strong…then anywhere we go…we take our home along.

When we’re driving in our car…a car made of metal and rubber and chrome…whether it’s just the two of us or our children or grandchildren in the back seat…our Subaru feels like home.

When we celebrate a birthday at a restaurant…have a picnic under a sky of blue
as we talk and laugh together…it feels like home, too.

When we see a movie together…taking up an entire row in the hippodrome…as I sit there surrounded by family…the theater feels like home.

And when we ring our son who lives across the country…when we talk to him on the phone…even though we’re standing 600 miles apart…it feels like he’s home.

Yes, our house is certainly important to us…but as has been proven to me time and time again…I don’t need walls, a room a roof…for wherever I may roam…
wherever I have family…
wherever I have their love…
then that’s where I call home.

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