There's No Place Like Home . . .

In going through my photos, I came across a photo of the house of my growing up years. It was the only place of residence I knew until the age of 19 when I moved to Oklahoma, to attend college. After graduating, I moved back and stayed at home until I married Eddie, at the age of 28.

A couple years after Eddie and I were married, Mom and Dad sold the “home” place and moved out into the country to be closer to my aging grandparents. At first, it broke my heart to think that I would no longer have a “home” to go back to.

That house, at 843 Koonce Street, was home to me. It embodied, or so I thought, all the wonderful, warm memories of my growing-up years.

After leaving the hospital, the beginning days of my life, it was where I first felt the warmth of my own bed, the arms of loving siblings, and the smells of mom’s cooking. It’s where I learned how to take my first steps and was introduced to music and books. Home was where I could always run to for safety when the neighborhood kids started fussing and arguing. At home there was always love and acceptance. If mom and dad disagreed, we never knew about it. We were always encouraged to love each other and everyone else. Home is where I first heard of Jesus and how much He loved me and that He had a very special plan for my life.

Home is where dad came every afternoon after putting in a full shift at the Post Office. We’d wait in anticipation for him to walk through the doors to see if he’d brought us anything. The rubber bands he brought home were always welcomed ammunition for the guns my oldest brother would hand craft from scraps of wood left in dad’s workshop.

Home was where I first learned of death and tragedy as I, along with my family, stood looking out the front window at a morning sky that was more orange in color than it should have been. We later learned that the natural gas pipeline, five to six miles down the road had exploded as people got up to light their gas heaters. We learned that a family in our church was one of the families involved in the explosion and that the mother and baby had not escaped the flames of that inferno. I was young and didn’t understand it all, but knew that I was safe behind the front window of our living room’s wall.

It was at 843 Koonce Street where I learned the power of prayer as a tornado rolled down our street, destroying homes in its path. As the windows of our house shattered, doors fell out into the halls, and the deafening wind filled our ears, my dad draped himself over us and prayed to the top of his lungs (so we could hear him) for God is keep us safe. The old home had taken a beating, but its strong walls stood tall in the midst of ciaos and debris.

At the age of 19 I left home for college in Oklahoma and learned the joy of “coming home” for weekend and holiday visits. Nothing can compare to that feeling of crossing the “state line”, knowing that I was almost home! Nothing can describe the feeling of seeing mom and dad in the rearview mirror waving to me as I drove away to return to school. Tears were shed in abundance.

Now, 45 years later, the old home place is owned by a stranger who has not kept it in good condition, and it hurts to even drive by and see it’s condition. I’ve become more aware now, that the memories of my life at 843 Koonce Street are not held within the walls of that structure but within the walls of my heart, mind, and soul. No matter how far away from home I go, I will always cherish those memories and share them with my children and grandchildren. That brings warmth to my heart.

I’m still blessed to have my parents but I know that if Jesus tarries long enough, there will come a day where I’ll no longer be able to go “home.” That breaks my heart, but I thank God for the wonderful memories. Now, it’s time for me to make memories for my daughters so that they will always think warmly of “home!”