home

Although it's been many years since I lived there, mine is in the foothills of the North Georgia mountains, in a little college town, where the red clay stains the hands of the children who play in its dirt.

It's the place where our family has roots, and where safety washes over me the second I walk through the back door with the chimes hanging from its knob.

If we're lucky -- and I am -- home gives us the opportunity to temporarily slip from adulthood back into a time where you don't make decisions, and everyone's just happy to see you.

This week, though, my home is here ...



Once a year I come here, to the panhandle of Florida, where the sand is white and the water is green.  It is blazing hot, and my favorite thing about walking through this door is the rush of the 68-degree chill that washes over me.

There is no agenda, no alarm clock, and no pressure to do anything other than what you feel like doing.

It's not my home home, but there is family here, safety, and meals provided.

And it is good!