I have a working theory-- a theory about Home. "Where is home?", I have always hated this question. No one means any harm by it, of course, and when it's asked in the context of my childhood, I understand the desire to know. We moved a lot growing up, in spurts and starts, at formative ages to varied and unique places. So it makes sense, that they'd want to know which is Home. But how do I answer? Is it my birthplace? Or where we lived the longest? Where I have the most friends? Where I graduated high school? Where my family lives? Those are all different cities, different places, different Homes to me. It seems narrow to pick just one. The truth is, though, I don't think of every city we lived in as Home, and I think I know the difference for me: Home is the place where good and hard and sad and important and joyful memories all intermix, where there is no one definitive feeling that arises, but a bittersweet flurry of emotions that are too much to express. So here's my theory: Home is where a piece of you stays, pieces that can both never be retrieved and stay with you forever, pieces that call out to you when you're near them, pieces of grace. I just landed in one of my Homes, El Paso. The place where I learned about community and loneliness, about joy and loss. It's where I learned about people, and how to love them well, and how I was capable of hurting them, too. The happy memories are inseparable from the hard, sad, ugly ones, held together with grace. I think El Paso is where I began to get a glimpse of grace, and the piece of me there is bigger than most.