On Saturday, I looked around, in my house, and it had become home. The very walls were alive, echoing of laughter and voices and a joyful noise – it was filled with that joyful noise, of bonhomie and friendship, the bonds of humanity, a grand synergy that only comes from love, respect, and true affection.
When I do choose someone – make no mistake, it will be a choice – that’s the spirit I’ll be looking for. I won’t be in search of her making me happy above all others (it’s not about that). I won’t be looking for her to fill a hole (that’s not her job or role in my life). I won’t be in expectation of her being perfect (no one is).
No, I will look at her and she must feel like my spiritual home.
There will be days when I won’t feel like I love her, but I will always like her. (My mother has often said that it is her obligation as a Christian to love people, but she has no obligation to like them – I like that nuanced sentiment). There will be days when she may even be the source of my discomfort or irritation, but those are passing things. If I ever find the day in which I don’t want to talk to her, then I’ll know we’re in real trouble, and that’s the day I’ll dig deeper.
But, I will never, ever again seriously be with someone who does not feel like home. I have been searching all my life for this and in the last six months I have finally started to sort out what that looks like with my real, growing adult senses.
Perhaps it is only a bottle of wine and good company. Maybe it’s a late night phone call, tethered to someone else by wireless connections shooting through the air. Or it could be someone loading the dishwasher for me after a long day; it’s spending a weekend moving heavy boxes and furniture, together; it is saying words that heal and lift up instead of hurt and cut down; it’s the quiet kiss to a tired, aged forehead.
It is home, it is home, it is home, and I finally have one now and so there is space for one more.