There I am, making a mountain of clothes, throwing them from my closet onto my bed, stacking them up into a haphazard pile, boxes half-full on the floor. And it hits me.
I like to think that "home" is just a word to describe a place that fills your heart. Of course we have our "home" with the classic denotation of the word, which is where we grew up - our childhood abode. The place we first rode our bike down the cul-de-sac with no training wheels. The neighborhood kids you'd play hide and go seek with until the sun went down. The basketball hoop in front of your neighbor's house where you'd spend hours playing HORSE. The beach you grew up making sand castles at and finding sand crabs in. The harbor holding the boats you caught your first fish on. The big palm trees in your backyard that stand taller than any house in the neighborhood.
But home is just a word.
Two years ago, Malibu became a home of mine, and just last year, Switzerland did too. I think that people make a place what it is. All the little families you make from all the places you've lived web together into a tangled yet perfect little home inside of your heart where each person takes a little piece.
Tomorrow morning, I'm leaving Orange County for what feels like the hundredth time. I'm on my way back up to Malibu to unload my car, unload my life, and begin another journey in a place I've already once called home. After being in Europe for the past year, the coming back to the place where I grew so much two years ago is what I'm most nervous for. I'm a different person now than I was back then and it's crazy to think that I'm already halfway done with college.
I can't wait to see where God will lead me this year. I've never felt so ready.