Home is where the heart is, goes the popular saying. But my heart is still divided.
My mother's house is in California, off of Valencia Street. Inside, the oak table, the pictures of the Christ and the Madonna hang on the wall.
Blue curtains with brocade which matches the couch.
The smell of spaghetti and meatballs in the air.
i want to go back. I want to go back to my childhood.
My home now is in sunny Florida. In it, there is a big bed with a floral bedspread, a bookcase overflowing, a kitchen with a wood buffet and living room with white chairs.
There, God and I reside. It was a choice. See the childhood had verbal and emotional abuse. The lack of acknowledgement, the words that said I didn't matter. But it looked so good on the outside.
This house, though not as pretty, seeks beauty inside. The material matters aren't present, but God offers other presents.
I'm home with God.
Does that mean I reject them? Even Jesus said, my mother, brothers and sisters are those who do the will of God.
It's the difference between a house and a home.
The troubling realization, hjowever, is that I create the same kind of home I grew up in. It's the cycle I am so comfortable with even though it's tearing my walls down.
Stop the cycle. Let me move into a new home. One where there is grace, honesty and purpose.
Get off the couch. Look through the curtains. Eat the and drink that which is eternal life.
That is home.
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