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My mom texted me about half an hour after I got back to school asking if I was home.

After I sent my reply, I realized that I could’ve said something like, “This isn’t home. Home is with you guys.”

I didn’t, but…

This is not “home” yet.

It’s where I live, and I feel relatively safe here (even though we hear sirens pretty much every night), but it’s not home.

They say that home is where the heart is.

I’ll be honest: my heart is not fully here.

I thought it was, but it’s not.

This morning at church I cried a lot.

My favorite media guy hugged me and prayed over me and gave me his email and cell number so I can talk to him anytime. He told me to not give up yet.

His wife said she’s going to pray for me every Monday.

I’m crying thinking about it.

These are people who I know are going to keep their word and pray for me.

My mom told me she’s proud of me, because she knows this is hard.

I made it six weeks without going home, even though there were days I desperately wanted to.

I have about another six weeks before my next break, at Thanksgiving.

I will be counting down the weeks and days.

But this morning was good, aside from the crying.

We did this seminar on the Old Testament, which is going to be incredibly helpful on my test in Bible in two weeks!

Nine AM until 3:30, with a few breaks thrown in. Long day, but fun and informative.

And I interviewed the youth pastor about the stuff I videotaped on Friday night. I have to edit it all together this week—planning on tomorrow.

So it was good.

I came back to school with different people than Thursday. Partly because I had more stuff to bring today than I did Thursday (heh) and it probably wouldn’t have fit in the car, and partly because I wanted to stay longer to finish out this seminar that we did instead of leaving like two hours before it was over.

So. That was good.

I wasn’t ready to leave home yet, but I had to come back for classes (I still have to study for tests) and if I hadn’t come back this afternoon, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to ever come back.

It’s almost nine and I haven’t had dinner yet.

We didn’t get here ’til about 7, and then I spent the first almost-hour back unpacking and stuff, and now I’m blogging and trying to avoid studying for a test that I have to take in about 12 hours.

I should get on that. But I don’t want to. But I have to. So I’m going to try.

~*~

Okay, what just happened?

It’s like an hour later or something, and I’m reading my chapter to study for my test, and in the one section they say this:

Think of the word “home,” for instance. Its denotative meaning is “a shelter used as a residence.” When you hear the word “home,” however, you probably also think of concepts such as “a place where I feel safe, accepted, and loved,” or “space where I am free to do whatever I want.” These are examples of the word’s connotative meaning, the implications that it suggests in addition to its literal meaning (Floyd, 168).

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