Long ago, God, it seems I bought a second home, even before I had money. That’s right, even as a youth, I took out a mortgage, as it were, on a second home. I thought I wanted to be there. I told myself it was where I belonged. I could live there whenever I wanted and, when I felt like it, return to my first home—dwelling in your midst. For the first 17 years of my life, I lived in that second home. I spent so much time there, my first home wasn’t even on the radar. Sometimes I get the urge, even now decades later, to run back to that second home. It sits there in shambles and, it’s crazy, but there’s something inside me that pushes me toward renovating it. Then you bring me to my senses. I was not meant for this place, and it wasn’t meant for me. It isn’t home; it simply charades as home; it is the property of a prodigal. The older I get, the easier it seems to leave that second home behind and come back to my first home—you. You’re always there, on the front porch, by the door, ready to welcome me and sit together. Thank you, God.
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