When looking for a place to call Home, my husband and I prioritized our criteria. Good schools. Good neighborhood. Taxes that wouldn’t send us to the poor house. The neighborhood we chose was tree-lined and quiet and the house, charming. Yes, I thought, this is a good house.
Soon our oldest was boarding the bright yellow bus. As the year progressed, our daughter flourished. She learned. She made friends. We befriended the parents of these friends. Yes, I thought, this is a good community.
Weekends quickly became mornings of soccer and afternoons of t-ball amidst birthday parties, recitals, ceremonies and family nights. Yes, I thought, this is a good place.
We have been living in this house, in this community, for almost six years now and despite the way this town seemed to surpass our expectations, something felt amiss.
Several days ago, a friend who lives in our town lost a very close loved one. Within minutes, a flurry of emails ensued among a group of women – the women whom I befriended through my children. Together we banned our thoughts, resources and know-how. We would try to bring comfort to our friend in her time of need.
Suddenly, I was overcome with emotion. Yes, I thought, I am Home.
What makes my community Home is knowing that these women I call my friends are raising my children’s friends. We do not know each other a lifetime and we share very little history together. However, what we do have is that common bond to make this community our home, to know we are more than just another family on the block.
I feel fortunate to have befriended these women and I am proud to be among them.