A few months ago I bought myself a copy of The Writer’s Devotional, a lovely volume filled with quotations, inspiration, and prompts for writers. I’m hardly a daily user—it’ll take me much more than 365 days to finish—but I enjoy the process.

A sweet woman whom I only know online told me that she pictured me writing on paper instead of computer, words covering the page. Little did she know how much I love to write, not composing words—although I surely love that—but the physical act of connecting pen with paper.

You see, in elementary school my worst grades were in penmanship: S-. Less than satisfactory. My perfectionist personality didn’t appear overnight as an adult; that mini-me in single-digits didn’t want to be less than enough in an area where I could improve.

And so I practiced. And practiced.

I’d write the alphabet as one long cursive word, each letter connected to the next. If I saw a greeting card with a lovely capital letter, I’d study and shape it until it became my own, a new edition to my ever-evolving, ever-perfectable catalog.

My husband says my penmanship is designed for no one but me to read, and there may be some truth in that.

All this to say, it’s very liberating to sit and write with a pen in a journal from prompts designed to stir my thoughts.

One of the early exercises asks If you could live anywhere in the world . . . or your thoughts on home, and that’s what I chose. Indulge me while I share?

I shed my hometown like a dog shakes the water from his back. Petty, snobbish, self-important—I resented this town as one with much to hide, or rather one who prefers to be the one most interested in her own story. Marked by the pride of life and the arrogance of youth that dares you to judge and complains when you do.

And so we pulled up roots and re-staked them half a country away, in a land where we were unknowing and unknown and held no rabid devotion to the local teams.

Truth is, you can’t outrun yourself. Until you can confess to God, lay all your garbage in front of Him, and then get up and walk away, you’ll never be free. Or home.

He can handle it. He’s seen worse.

What about you? If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be? What feels like home?

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