Funny story--when I was single, my roommate and I invited a family from church into our "home" (then, a make-shift apartment that was the second story of an old farm house--very first-place-esque). Commenting on many "found" pieces of decor, including a hand-painted pie plate made by my ceramics-loving grandmother, one of our guests said they didn't expect such pieces to be on display in our home. Why? Because we were single! As if marrying a man is what brings such touches to our tables!
By contrast, there was a man I dated some who described his taste in decor as consisting of "nothing organic." When I probed as to his meaning, he cited not liking furniture made of wood. Well, if any of you have been to my home, you know that we would have clashed royally! Can metal and glass furniture really feel as cozy and "homey" as wood? Not to me. But then, my long-time home was in the middle of a forest. (Besides, how can one build a nest without wood? Okay, that was a bad one!) That brings me to my main point, though: Home consists of the familiar. A month-and-a-half ago, we moved into this bare-walled apartment, and we have since made it "feel like home." That consists of more than stuff--it's our stuff, our favorite fragrances, our favorite foods in the refrigerator and cupboards, and our style of cooking--for better or for worse.
For worse, you ask? Sure. Can't you think of something distasteful about your home, your home town, or your home state, that makes it feel like home? I loved going to my grandmother's house, and there was a particular mixture of fragrances that accompanied those memories. I once found myself in a dreamy reverie in the storate aisle at Wal-mart, when I realized that one of those smells was that of moth balls! Admittedly not a pleasant odor, I associated it with the familiar and happy place where my now-deceased grandmother made me feel so special and loved!
For some reason, other things say "home" to me as well and just somehow resonate with my homesick heart--autumn and its colors, "Spiced Pumpkin" fragrance from Yankee Candle, the soundtrack to Anne of Green Gables by Hagwood Hardy, Susan Branch and her handwritten books with watercolor illustrations, and Jan Karon's heart-warming Mitford. So does the idyllic landscape of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, which my husband calls home. Perhaps someday we'll retire there.
By contrast, this November, we thought God might be leading us to make Tucson, Arizona, our new "home," and I wondered if it could ever truly feel like "home"--its landscape, climate, architecture were all so foreign, resembling nothing familiar. In fact, even if one could argue the superiority of one setting over another, the lack of familiarity could easily tempt a person to choose the "inferior" place, simply because of its greater chances of feeling like home. Thankfully, this was not a choice that was ours to make.
(To be quite honest, even though the "rejection" aspect was hard, we are actually relieved that God did not ask us to move to Tucson. Each day of the week before Christmas, I gave my husband, Jonathan, and our toddler son, Caleb, a small gift to open that symbolized something we're thankful God did not ask us--as yet, anyway--to give up! These included a grow-your-own-grass kit, a board book about dogs, and white tennis balls stacked to look like a snow man!)
Some people, sadly, "feel at home" when they're mistreated and in squalor, which is sad. My responsibility--part of it, anyway--is to form a positive sense of "home" for my own family. Will my sons feel at home when they are spoken to with biting sarcasm or shoved aside when technology or other "distractions" are present? Will they sense familiarity when there is conflict and ill will, or peace and harmony? I may not be able to control how many places they learn to call home, but my attitude and emotional and spiritual stability will go far to help establish their own self-confidence and sense of security. I hope they also remember that everything matched.