Coming Home

There is nothing like coming home.  The backpack, the oversized tote, coat and keys from the outside world slip off my shoulders and out of my hands.  The constrictive shoes are kicked aside.  My toes wiggle in the carpet on their way to the wardrobe where the comfort of cotton awaits.  A quick plunge under a watery spray and cleansing suds washes away the false face and the grime of travels.  At last, the comfort of cotton surrounds me as a gentle welcome home.  It feels like I have held my breath for hours on end but now, finally, there is freedom to breathe deeply without the eyes of prey watching and waiting for the slightest of opportunity to attack.  The hum of grinding gears announces the garage door opening and closing.  All will be well, for I am no longer fighting alone.  There is nothing like coming home.

There is nothing like coming home.  The battering rams designed to break through gates of my soul await to resume the war of another day.  But now the garage door closes and I am inside my haven, my home.  Collecting the tools of the mobile world from the passenger seat, I gladly transition my thoughts to the world I am about to enter.  For just beyond that nondescript, common door is a wife like no other.  My home knows grace, because she is in it.  My home holds beauty, because she is in it.  This house is a home worth coming home to because she is in it.

There is nothing like coming home.  Under this roof, we are at peace.  The armor of battle has no place here.  At the kitchen table, recipes of encouragement are prepared and food for the soul is served.  The sofa is our boardroom.  The business of a household and a partnership may be discussed but often the meetings are interrupted with bits of laughter and tears of relief.  The bathroom is the busiest room of the house and the smallest.  It is the place where the most interesting and the most annoying, albeit the most intimate, activities of daily living happen.  It is the place where respect reigns supreme, for it is our secret closet of faux pas.  The bedroom is our sanctuary, the holy of holies within our personal haven.  Our home is always open to guests and we strive to make our home inviting and accepting, but our bedroom is meant only for each other.  Should our sanctuary be dishonored or devalued, neglected or taken for granted, it would be as if our hearts were pumped full of sewage or hazardous chemicals instead of life-giving blood.

There is nothing like coming home.

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