Home isn't a physical place.

This morning I'm sitting at Jill's table and admiring my tree and my beloved Rudolph village that has finally made its way to the tops of my kitchen cabinets.  I'm overlooking the slight clutter on the kitchen counters.   My dog is chewing his food in the most ridiculous way--somehow it involves throwing some of it on the ground.  I see some laundry (always) in need of attention, but my familiar mug is keeping me glued to my seat for a few more minutes this morning.  

There is evidence of small peoples' lives all around me.  I've got a tiara on my table, a Book It! certificate, and some peanut shells I apparently missed last night when sweeping.  There are to-do lists, pictures, and even some presents under the tree.  

This place isn't perfect.  We've got some more work to do, and I'm trying to ignore the imperfections as I invite Christmas into my home. 

But this morning, for the first time maybe ever, this place is feeling more like home.  It may not be my personal home, but it has all of my people and memories and love inside of it.

And this morning, I'm remembering that those things are more important than the rest.  

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