Home is waking tucked between pillows to the light leaking through rain-glazed windows.
Happiness is opening worn pages to favorite passages and finding strength in familiar truth.
Home is omlettes and homemade biscuits and apple butter with the roomie.
Happiness is growing into a language you hope to one day call your own.
Home is the endless stream of motorbikes weaving around your car on the bypass. It’s street food carts and little warungs and rice with every meal.
Happiness is little cafes and dark coffee and rainy afternoons. It’s acoustic ballads in the headphones and doing work you’re passionate about.
Home is the presence of a heart you trust. One that whispers, cease your striving and just be. I take you as you are.
Happiness is knowing that before all your doing, you are already enough.
Home is a meal shared with family from all over the globe because there’s nothing like food and Jesus to bring people together. It’s probing conversation and honesty.
Happiness is here and now and this.
*the other day, a writer friend of mine asked me what home and happiness meant in the context of that day. this piece was the result. thanks josh!