Courtney, Caleb and I went on a road trip last week to visit these

two precious people…

My wonderful parents Bill and Felicia and equally wondrous grandparents known as

Grand Felicia and Grandpa Bill.  We were having dinner at Basillio’s,

a scrumptious restaurant on Main Street in Pullman.

I had the Chicken and Spinach Salad with Huckleberry

Dressing…yes, it was that good so there are no pictures to prove the goodness

or the surprise of a little bacon hidden among the healthiness of spinach…genius.

I also had some sweet potato fries because it was vacation and there are no rules.

Salad plus fries equals a great balance between good for you and not so good.

Yes, I went home.

Okay, that isn’t my home.

Can you imagine?

Oh, and this isn’t my home either.

Courtney and I saw so many  such structures over the course of the

miles, that we wondered aloud


Why not just knock down these structures that seems to defy gravity?

But then I thought of so many people who have endured storm after storm,

hardship followed by seemingly too much,

and I wonder if they feel a bit like

these buildings.

A bit sloped and battered.

Beams of light shooting through worn timber from

exposure to life.

How do they remain standing?

I wonder.

I believe I know.

Over the course of the last month, I have been in both of my

grandparents’ homes.

Homes that are packed with memories and a lot of


My grandmother’s home is empty now.

My grandparent’s house is still full of a lot of things of life.

But after being in both, it became clear that these two houses

are now just houses.

They house things but not the beloved people that birthed

life into  walls and kitchen tables and wing back chairs.

Simply structures but not homes in the truest and fullest sense.

I have never lived in the house where my parents live now.

Yet it is every bit home to me.

It is home because it is where they live.

The way we laugh at the dinner table.

The ease of putting ones feet up on a coffee table 🙂

The fact that I sleep so soundly under quilts of love.

Home is a place to be reminded of who you are.

The front door of home hugs you before its even opened.

It is where you are  filled with fuel for the paths ahead.

A place to be embraced for the girl you were

and the one you have become, worn timber and all.

Portland is my home now.

I brought home a bit of stuff from homes of the past

as remembrance.

I am so thankful that I can always find home in


Rolling hills that nourish and provide our

necessary bread.

I came home full.

Stuffed in fact.

4 thoughts on “home

  1. Hey Kim,
    I am glad you are enjoying the simple things to help dismantle all those things
    that add up and make and keep you worn out.


  2. brought tears to my eyes. Feel a bit worn sometimes, All the small things add up sometimes, as a friend of mine used to say “it is the little foxes that steal the grapes”.
    it is good to remember that we still have a “home”, a place of sanctuary, where we can shut out the word and delight in a baby’s smile, homemade strawberry jam, and laughter of silly girls.


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