This is Home

It was so far away it seemed at least from where I was,

Yet the familiarity of the whole never fades.

The stone-cracked path, deserted by lissome feet, have worn down to nothing,

Lest only the pebbles leading up to the weathered stoop be whole.

Its features, silver with age and vigil,

Humbly cast their shadow among the dogwoods: flourishing, in bloom.

The sun shone pensively,

Yet failed to glisten once more along the rough edges of the dusty brick and stone.

Elements cracked, yet imbibed every breeze bye and bye it went,

Whispering in its ancient way.

The frame, whittled down by time, shivered as a blanket drying in the wind,

Being chased by every whisper.

The figure, unchanged really, aspiring the very length of past hopes, dreams,

And more established on its foundation, revealed more than a wooden frame.

This is where life became lived

And dream became strive,

Where more was less,

And where Christ embodies friend.

Love is something that can be tossed around from time to time

As a useless entity or attitude,

But when genuine, it is never really lost to the one who finds it.

The love that groaned within these now bare walls, left long ago, crept in.

The joy, forgiveness, and sincere character all set apart.

You could say: it was a piece of what the Master made whole.

And yes, it's where the heart truly lays to rest;

It's where the heart sincerely lives, breathes, laughs, and

Ultimately loves.

This is home.