I felt it this weekend.

Home.

I sat high in the football stand, scanning the crowd below, watching the players move the ball. I knew in that moment I was in love–with a town, as if love could be as wide as streets and people and fight songs and friends.

I’m terrified to admit this.

Why?

Because I fear being happy in a place. I moved as a child, too much for my liking (as if I could control that). The nature of moving uproots me, rips out my roots, sometimes leaving tendrils of them still in the soil I’m torn from. Once married, we continued the tradition, new towns, new states, a new country. The move to France fully ripped me apart in every hard, yet good way. I learned deep lessons about identity, worth, and Jesus being my home. I learned the art and craft of blooming where I’m planted, even when I feel I don’t belong.

But now we’re on the cusp of living in a place the longest I’ve ever lived. I admit it freely: Rockwall, I’m smitten with you. I love your streets, your trees, the way the sun dances on the lake at dusk. I love your football games, your churches, your people. I love the mayor and his wife. I love the way my perennials thrive under your sunshine. I love neighbors (though I regret not engaging enough). I love my friends here. I love running toward the lake, feeling the breeze on my face. I love a big sky, populated with fluffy clouds. I love the taste of autumn here and the beautiful, relentless sunshine.

Over dinner, I talked to Sophie about this. I hesitated at first to say it, but then took the risk. “I feel like this is home,” I told her.

“I do too,” she said.

I let our words linger there, this mutuality of our family feeling planted in a place.

And I risk in sharing my heart here because I fear someday God will uproot me again, ask me to bloom somewhere else. I love Him enough to follow Him anywhere. I guess it’s just a blessing, such a huge, beautiful blessing, to call a place home and smile as I say it.