Home is a funny thing

My family live 700 something kilometres away. In this vast land of ours, it isnt really very much, but for the heart, its a chasm. I just returned from over three weeks in my home town. It was so easy, so natural to be around the people I love. I know the pulse of that town. I know the rhythm of my family. I know the river. I know where the rocks are to dodge, when we decide to go for a float to escape the heat. It was home. Is home.

Then, the time comes to return... home? This place, where I live, is my home. It is undeniable. My bedroom is my space. My housemates are good friends. My church family is, that! My family. There are people here that cannot be replaced. There is a peace about being and living in the deep south that only comes from having settled, in more than a logistical sense.

So I came home, missing my family and the warmth. It's always warm there. Even in the bitter winter.

Yet I have been blessed this weekend. I was reminded how this is my home. My church family was glad to see me, and I to see them! We spent some time at the beach last night, and it was amazing. People smiled. My favourite was playing with Sunny the Sandcastle Squaser. I made 60 or more sandcastles, and Sunny would promptly squash them, in a variety of ways. Always accompanied with a fitting raspberry noise, that I may or may not have encouraged. It was fun. I have two families.

Have a super day!

Royce.