Home

Meya stood in the middle of the room, barefoot. Water dripped from her freshly washed haired onto her pajamas. We were just about to begin the nighttime routine: book, prayer, lullaby. But her nose became pink and her eyes filled with tears.

"I want to go home, Mom."

I know what she was asking for. She wanted to return to our house on Ivandale St. But it was more than that...it wasn't just the place she was missing. She was longing for the stability and familiarity associated with the house we moved out of two weeks ago.

I held her and rocked her and I tried to convince her that "home" is wherever our family is. She calmed down enough so that I could continue with the routine. I tucked her into an unfamiliar bed and said goodnight.

Home. I've been thinking a lot about it - even before Meya brought it up.

This will be the 10th move (as in moving to a completely different state) I've gone through in my life. Six of them happened before I graduated from high school and headed off to another state for school. And I can say with conviction that every place I've lived was, for a time, home.

Walls. Plaster. Timbers. An address. These things have very little to do with a home.

Traditions. Routines. Love. Laughter. Work. People. These are what makes a home.

And so as I go through this transient part of our travels--hopping from hotel to hotel, living at friends' houses, and arriving at temporary quarters in Jakarta--I will try to help my children not feel homeless. We're bringing home with us wherever we go.