Home Isn't a Place

Michelangelo was once asked how he created David.
His answer has stayed with people for more than five hundred years.
He said he didn't create David at all.
The statue was already inside the marble.
His job was simply to remove everything that wasn't David.
I've been thinking about that a lot lately.
Not because I want to sculpt marble.
Because I wonder if people work the same way.
Maybe we spend most of our lives trying to become someone new...
when the real work is uncovering the person who has been there all along.

For as long as I can remember, I've caught myself saying the same strange sentence.
Usually while standing in my own kitchen.
Or sitting on my own couch.
Sometimes after a long walk.
Sometimes for no reason at all.
I quietly say to myself,
I want to go home.
The strange thing is...
I already am.
My keys are on the counter.
The kettle is where I left it.
Everything is exactly where it should be.
And yet...
the sentence still feels true.
For years I assumed I was talking about a place.
Lately...
I'm beginning to wonder if I've been talking about a feeling.

A few days ago I listened to an album I hadn't heard in over twenty years.
One lyric caught me off guard.
"Home, home again... I like to be here when I can."
Instead of comfort...
I felt sadness.
Not because I wanted another house.
Because I couldn't remember the last time I truly felt home.
Not familiar.
Not comfortable.
Home.
There is a difference.

I started asking myself when that feeling disappeared.
Not gradually.
All at once.
Then a memory quietly walked into the room.
When I was twelve I was crossing the street.
A car hit me.
I survived.
I still carry the scar.
For years I shaved my head so people could see it.
At fourteen I thought it made me look tough.
Looking back...
I think it was armour.
Something changed after that day.
Not just my body.
The way I saw the world.
It felt as though someone had quietly pulled back the curtain and shown me something twelve-year-olds aren't supposed to see yet.
Mortality.
Once you've seen behind that curtain...
it never quite closes again.

People sometimes tell me I look intimidating.
I don't think they're seeing anger.
I think they're seeing vigilance.
The kind that settles into your face before you even realize it's there.
I sometimes wonder if I've spent years searching for the feeling I had before that day.
The feeling of being home.

For a while I thought I was searching for innocence.
Now...
I'm not so sure.
Children are innocent because they don't know.
Adults can't unknow what they've seen.
Maybe innocence doesn't return.
Maybe...
it transforms.
A child is peaceful because they haven't yet seen the weight of the world.
An adult who finds peace again has seen that weight...
and learned they don't have to carry all of it.

I've started noticing something else.
Every time I write honestly...
I feel lighter.
Not because I discover easy things.
Quite the opposite.
The deeper I dig...
the heavier the things I uncover become.
Fear.
Regret.
Grief.
Old stories.
Old wounds.
But then something strange happens.
I don't leave carrying them.
I leave lighter.
That didn't make sense to me at first.
Until I realized something.
Perhaps uncovering something doesn't mean you're meant to carry it forever.
An archaeologist uncovers an ancient stone.
They don't put it in their backpack.
They brush it off.
Study it.
Leave it where it belongs.
Maybe we're meant to do the same with ourselves.

That's when Michelangelo came back to me.
Maybe David wasn't created.
Maybe he was revealed.
Maybe that's what healing is.
Not becoming someone else.
Removing everything that isn't really you.
Fear.
Shame.
The stories you've mistaken for your identity.
The unnecessary stones.
Perhaps the person you're looking for isn't waiting somewhere ahead.
Perhaps they've been here all along... covered over.

Then I found myself thinking about Jesus.
He says,
"Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
He doesn't promise easier circumstances.
He promises rest.
Lightness.
I wonder if that's what I've been searching for all along.
Not answers.
Relief.

People often say Jesus carried the sins of the world.
What has always fascinated me is that he chose to.
Love chose the burden.
Fear doesn't.
Fear simply grabs whatever it can find.
Then there's Simon.
For years I thought Simon's role was simply practical.
Someone had to help carry the cross.
Now I wonder if it's one of the deepest images in the Gospel.
Simon doesn't remove the cross.
He doesn't finish the journey for Jesus.
He simply carries it for a while.
Long enough that another person isn't carrying it alone.
I think we've forgotten how beautiful that is.

The harder lesson isn't helping someone carry their burden.
The harder lesson...
is letting someone help carry yours.
If I'm honest...
I still struggle with that.
There's something inside me that wants to carry every stone myself.
Maybe because it feels strong.
Maybe because it feels safe.
Maybe because if nobody knows you're carrying something...
nobody can see how heavy it really is.
But then I remember something I wrote not long ago.
If no one knows you're carrying something...
no one can help carry it.
I think I wrote that sentence before I fully understood it.

I've spent a long time trying to figure out where home is.
Maybe I've been asking the wrong question.
Maybe home isn't somewhere we travel.
Maybe it's what remains after we've put down everything that was never ours to carry.
Maybe heaven isn't simply somewhere we go one day.
Maybe it begins every time fear loosens its grip.
Every time love becomes lighter than anxiety.
Every time we stop trying to outrun tomorrow...
and finally stand where we already are.
Perhaps that's what Jesus meant when he said,
"The Kingdom of God is within you."
Not that we build it.
That we uncover it.
One stone at a time.

I don't know if innocence ever returns.
I don't think it does.
But I do believe something else can grow in its place.
Something quieter.
Something stronger.
A peace that doesn't come from never having suffered...
but from no longer needing to carry every part of that suffering with you.
Maybe that's home.
Or maybe...
home isn't something we return to.
Maybe it's the person that's left...
after everything that isn't us has finally been carved away.