Home is Wherever I’m With You

“What are you going to blog about?” she asked me.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Call it ‘Home is Wherever I’m With You,’ and talk about Jesus.”

“There’s an idea.”

What makes something—someone—beautiful? When does a good thing’s goodness or a nice person’s niceness bubble up to the capacity that it jumps from good and nice to beautiful? Here’s what I know: Life doesn’t stay in between the lines; God doesn’t obey shoulds, but broadens horizons past coulds into absolutely yeses, even when that seems unconventional; People who were meant to be one thing allow themselves to be another; you must claim them for everything they are, not for whom they were supposed to be. And you must celebrate them. That’s what I did this weekend: I celebrated those people who jumped headfirst into loving me, even though I’m occasionally less than lovable.

I went home for Father’s Day, where Father/Brother Chris pointed out right away that my car is a collection bin for empty Starbucks cups and t-shirts and the occasional can of beans (I go camping! Well, I went one time.) He made sure to correct my lane-changing skills, too. And he shook his head when I mentioned—gasp!—a boy. I still kissed him goodbye, because I heard what he was saying loud and clear: You drink too much coffee. You make rash decisions. You’re my girl. And I love you.

Also, nothing says, “I love you” like making someone fajitas. But what about this: Home is wherever I’m with you.

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The other days were spent with my family-away-from-my-family celebrating a friend, the kind of friend who demands more words than “friend” to be described. Can I call you my sister? Can I tell people we’re like family, better than some families? Can I tell them you’re my confidant, that you talk me down and up and through, that I give you secrets and stories, and you hold them? I can’t be sure if they’ll understand. I’ll try it this way: Home is wherever I’m with you.

*********************************

What makes something beautiful? Light. Diamonds on the water shimmer beauty. The moon sings, the stars his backup harmonizers, and we come back night after night to hear. Even lightning is breath-taking, danger and all. And my best friend, well she shines even more.

So what makes a beautiful day? How do you celebrate in one day the way someone brightens up life year-round? You don’t; we took the weekend. Road trips, coffee, salami (<– this stuff is delicious!), dresses, lemonade, blueberries, pedicures, flowers, a mama, a daddy, a sister, a friend, a good waiter. These things say, “We’re so happy you were born.” And we are. We really, really are.

More goodness than the best things that aren’t you. More niceness than ten million non-slobbery puppies. Bright light (shining for Jesus like a boss!) Beautiful. Happy birthday to you.

What could be more beautiful than celebrating people who are so, so beautiful themselves? Not much, especially when there’s fajitas and salami.

You guys aren’t perfect, but that’s okay; it would be a lot of pressure on the rest of us if you were (and I, for one, still have a lot of coffee cups in my car.) But I love you with every hair on my head, and let’s be real, I have a lot of it. I will even when you’re less than lovable, I pinkie swear.

You teach me how.

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