I’ve always thought the words house and home were interchangeable.
They’re not.
One is a building. The other is an experience.
Anyone who’s lived any sort of life knows what I’m talking about.
When I was married and living in Texas, my house was just that: a house. It was filled with people I loved, especially my daughters, but overall, it was simply a building. A shelter from storms. A roof over our heads.
Within those walls were happy moments, little sparkles of what could have been, and the saving grace I always found in my children’s laughter.
But it was also the place where I learned how to become the most insignificant version of myself.
It was where harsh words were spoken instead of loving ones. Where accusation and regret hung like cobwebs in the corners. Where I longed for a life that seemed to belong to everyone else because I couldn’t imagine it ever happening to me.
Thankfully, divorce freed me.
Yes, the divorce was painful. But it gave me freedom.
And my girls and I came home.
Our home wasn’t perfect. It was a weird little townhome with odd walls, a strange galley kitchen, and a funkily placed bathroom. It needed paint, a new furnace, a new ceiling, and a new roof.
It was a money pit.
But my mother was there.
And in the middle of all my hurt and pain, she welcomed us…home.
For all its imperfections, it was home until the day she died.
Then, quietly, it reverted back to being a house.
A very lonely one, filled with memories and grief.
My girls and I lived like nomads in two different apartments. They were houses, but somehow, we managed to turn them into homes.
We grieved there. We healed there. We grew there.
Then my sister and I bought our current house.
Turning it into a home has been a challenge. How do you merge four distinct personalities and settle them all under one roof?
Challenging?
Yes.
Worth it?
YES.
Because over these past two years, we’ve made it a home.
And I notice the shift whenever one or more of us isn’t here.
The house feels different.
Quieter.
Less alive.
Which brings me to the question you might be asking:
“Why are you telling me all this, Vikki Lynn?”
Or maybe:
“When are you going to tell me how to make my house feel like a home?”
I’m not.
That’s not what I’m here for.
Oh, I have things that make our house cozy. Candles. Crocheted blankets. Pillows. Comfy furniture. Even a fireplace.
But none of those things make this a home.
Home is when my dad and stepmom come over every Saturday night and we share a meal while telling the same stories we’ve told a hundred times before.
Home is when my daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter visit, and I get to pull out all the little things I’ve bought just for her because, well…
I’m a Grandma.
And I can.
Home is pulling out the carefully labeled holiday bins and decorating for every single season because it’s a joy to do it with someone who loves holidays as much as I do.
Home is every home-cooked meal we share, whether we’re gathered around the dining room table or sitting in front of the television watching Midsomer Murders.
Home is where my sisters plant, place, and carefully tend to all the beautiful flowers out front and in back. It’s where the birds come to eat, knowing there will always be food waiting for them.
(The squirrels come to dine, too, but we won’t talk about that.)
Home isn’t made with objects.
It’s made with memories.
With people.
With smells.
With sounds.
It’s made with laughter echoing through the halls, familiar voices filling the rooms, and the quiet comfort of knowing you belong.
That’s what turns a house into a home.
Not the furniture.
Not the paint.
Not the perfectly decorated rooms.
Not even the fireplace.
It’s the life that happens inside those four walls.
The people who fill them.
The memories that linger long after everyone has gone to bed.
The laughter.
The tears.
The ordinary Tuesday nights and the big Saturday dinners.
The holidays and the hard days.
The coming home.
Because maybe that’s the difference between a house and a home.
A house is where you live.
Home is where you belong.
