I was raised as an Air Force brat, moving every few years. While it doesn’t sound like a grand thing to other people, I look back on this way of life with gratefulness. No, its true, I do not have a “hometown” from my childhood. I even went to three different high schools. And even though we moved every three to five years, I can still remember each and every address with fondness.


A few years ago I traveled with my sister to a high school reunion in California. I had attended middle and one year of high school with these folks and it was such a blast to see faces I hadn’t seen in over 30 something years. Before we left, we managed to talk our way onto the base and found our house which happened to be slated for demolition along with the rest of the houses on Fitzgerald street.

We peeked into the windows to see the hardwood floors and the old kitchen cabinets. We had lived in this house for over 4 years. We had brought our black wienerdog home to this house. I had gone on my first date from this house. This house was full of wonderful memories to me and I stood looking at the old structure and was amazed at the good feelings I had for a house.

When dad was in Vietnam, we had moved off base and into another house. We tried to find that house too but managed to miss the roads as the streets seemed different and the landmarks changed. I think its probably brain fog that kept us from finding our way to that house on San Dimas.

And now, as I sit in my lovely home with air conditioning blasting down around me and my wiener dogs laying next to me, I am again reminded of the specialness of a house. A home. The comfortable place where we dwell. And live.

” In my Father’s house are many homes. If it weren’t so, I would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you.” John 14:2