A Corner Called Home

In my neighborhood there’s a certain corner that always feels like home. Little more than a bend in the road, this corner becomes a special place in the evenings, though I doubt the home owners realize it. The corner can’t properly be called a cul-de-sac, and if the road were a river, it’s as if that river took a lazy pause to pool a little before continuing on its way.

During the day, this corner is quite ordinary, consisting of three houses all with front porches and front yards landscaped and dotted with plants. The house in the center looks slightly churchy with brick and decorated windows evoking the thought of stained glass. In the evening, the corner becomes magical, a refuge of light in a sea of darkness.

Often on my evening walks, I’ve wondering at the feeble streetlights in this part of town and amazed at the three houses that never seem to worry about their electricity bills. I round the bend and am welcomed by light piercing the darkness. Each of the three houses has their outside and inside lights on, illuminating their porches and the well cared for yards. It’s as if suddenly the neighborhood has life in it brash and bold and wafting out into the world instead of being kept behind closed doors. The churchy windows of the middle house give the corner a hallowed atmosphere, but it’s hallowed because its home.

The essential part of “home” for me is that one is welcome. One is welcome to come over, to laugh, to share food, to watch movies, to argue, to debate, to hug, to sing, to dance, to share joys together. In the natural world light is the ultimate sign of welcome, a magnet in the dark. I hope and pray that everyone may have a corner of the world of the world that they can call home.

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