Home

Home is a term that is used throughout the world as the place where one lives. Is this really what home means? In looking deeper at what the word really means, many interpretations become apparent. Another word that sometimes is confused with home is the word house. A house is the actual building where a person lives, whereas a home is more personal. The dictionary defines the word home as the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered (Scott, Foresman Advanced Dictionary p.528). A house is made of mud and bricks but a home is made from love. A home is made of love, sorrow, laughter, excitement, hope, care, atmosphere and feelings of everyone. A home reflects your personality. When a guest enters in the house, he/she comes to know what sort of person you are. A home is a place to rest. There's no place except home which seems like heaven to us.

A definition of home has no correct answer. Each individual’s meaning is different. I associate home with feelings of comfort, security, and love. Webster’s Dictionary defines home as “a place where we live, a place of residence (www.m-w.com).” However, this is a better definition for a house, while home is what’s on the inside. If you don’t have family, you don’t have home. Feelings of fear and troublesome problems are mainly dealt with in the home. I feel protected from unknown things in the world because home is familiar to me. A home is not just a house; it is more than a place. A house is just a shelter where you live but don’t necessarily love it. Home is where you love to live because you have your belongings in it, your toys that you grown up with, childhood memories, and many more.

The above examples are only a general look at what home means. In order to really get a look at home, one must dive deeper into examples of the meaning of the word home. When I think of home, the image of solitude and constant movement resonates in my mind. Nothing is ever still. The first image of home in my mind is sitting in my family room watching my father walk out the door in his uniform with his green military bags slung over his shoulders. Off to war again, to do the job that everyone says, “Someone else will do it.” That someone else is my father. I don’t picture my mother or my brother or any of the rooms in the house. Just the back of my father’s uniform with “Quinn” written on the bags as the door closes behind him. As most people think of a pet, loving memory, or a loving family member, I picture being left with a, “See you in seven months,” and a handshake. Throughout my whole life, I have been a military “brat:” the common name for the child of a military officer who moves around following their respective officer. It seems as though this is a repeated occurrence in my childhood.

The image of home is one that is burned into your memory when you are a young child. When I was young, my father was very active in the military, fighting in Desert Storm, the Gulf War, Panama, Bosnia, Enduring Freedom, and Iraqi Freedom to name just a few. I had become very accustomed to him walking out the door with those bags and the nametags. Because we moved around a lot, there is no one specific house, apartment, yard, driveway, or season that sticks in my memory. It is the memory and image of being left behind.

In Tracy Kidder’s book, Mountains Beyond Mountains, Paul Farmer has a different outlook on what