Home

Home.

Is it a brick or wooden structure?

Is it a cold rock castle stable and secure,

                or a flimsy cardboard shack exposed to the elements?

Is it a place where food is dished out

                or where sleepy heads find soft pillows to cuddle?

Is it a concrete slab with a welcome mat thrown across the threshold

                or an open doorway with shy smiles peeking from the inner dimness?

Is it the "Home, sweet home" cross-stitched inside a frame

                or a curled calendar hanging groggily from a rusty nail?

Home.

Have I looked for you in the proper places?

Do you purposely elude me as I long to make you my hideout?

Where have others found you? What road have they taken,

what turn did they make, what gate did they open?

Maybe, just maybe, you’re not a scene opening before my eyes.

                Perhaps, you can’t be painted or repaired by my hands.

There’s a chance that you’ve been with me all along,

                that you’ve been lost in my attitudes,

                and that wherever my Lord has set a place with fellowship,

                His presence, and love, there I have my

Home.

                                                                                              Elena Huegel

                                                                                              Curicó, Chile, Jan. 1996

I revisit this poem as I finish painting and fixing up my home!