THIS IS HOME

I keep thinking about the small porcelain plaque packed safely in a chest in our house on Jones Road.  It's an Irish dollar-store classic I must've bought at a souvenir shop in Galway years ago.  But it's special to me.  I didn't bring it to Beirut because I didn't want it to get broken; it holds a thousand memories of Gramma and her Irish home.

But maybe I should've brought it.  Porecelain can always be glued.

Under a decal of a blurry Irish cottage it says "Home Is Where the Heart Is."

I just returned from a month in the U.S. to finish some long and tedious dental work.  (Can't scare little kids anymore by taking out my front tooth.)  I spent most of that time in the comfort and quietness  on Jones Road, sleeping in a familiar bed, having my boys drop in, listening to the owls at night.  It didn't matter that the house was nearly empty, that there were no familiar touches to speak of--unless you consider the telephone on the kitchen counter.  I felt soooo at home. 

But I also felt at home on Carlinda Avenue with Gwennie, in the coolness of her basement guest room, hearing the click of Bailey's nails on the floor upstairs and the airport traffic rumbling in the clouds above that.  It's where I spent precious time with Gramma.  It's where I enjoy the company of Gwennie, of family.  It's still home for many memories.  

For the sheer fun of it, I also spent a weekend with Erina and Ehren in their "hobbit hole" in D.C. sleeping on an air mattress in the corner.   It was cozy.  It was filled with touches of Erina's "home" making.  It's their place, but it's so comfortable for me too.  So easy.  Just like home.

How natural, then, for me to sigh with relief a few days ago as I slid my suitcases across the gray marble of our home here in Beirut, "I'm so glad to be home."

This is home.  With each return it becomes more so as we unpack the extra duffel bag of TJMaxx window sheers, Krusteaz waffle mix, Curel lotion, Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter, and Ziploc quart bags.  This is where we bring things from "home" to make home.  But more than that, this is where our hearts rest at the end of a day.  It's not fancy.  But like Erina, I have enjoyed "touching" it with a few of my special treasures, my taste.  Each week or so I add something new, something to make it more "home."

Don't you even THINK of stepping in the mud before
entering. It doesn't come off.  Easily.

We've added the touch of a small plastic patio table, 
two plastic chairs...mainstays, all-occasion furnishings, 
in this region.

By the end of summer the geraniums are lush, hanging
low and full from the windowsills.

Stay the night.  The couch flattens as a bed, the two
chairs flatten and connect as another sleep unit. The
morning sun through the patio doors will wake you up.

A special feature of our new home...a dining room
table that doesn't sway and that doubles as a cluttered
study when company isn't expected.

The benefit of built-in cupboards that cover
one wall:  All you need is a bed.

If not a dream kitchen, the four burners and miniature
oven can still make fixins' for 25.

We are unusually blessed here, living in a little villa of our own--a luxury by any Lebanese standard.  Very, very few in all of Beirut live in a single-family dwelling.  A house.  Fewer still enjoy trees on all four sides, and even fewer have their own clear driveway; it doesn't matter that we don't have a car to park in it!  Considering the congestion surrounding us, we live in the luxury of open, unheard-of space, within the reach of bird songs and wind and rustling trees.  The city sounds that still envelop us--buses and trash trucks, cranes and sirens, fireworks and gunfire, amplified prayers and neighbor's sound systems--don't detract from our blessing. They simply remind us of the world around us and the purpose we're here.

With so much given to us, we have so much to share.   We are at home; we are blessed with a place of peace.  And for our world here, peace is a precious commodity.   Our home is open.