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I just saw a movie where a kid’s best friend died. She was a cute girl that brought light into his life. I hate it when that happens. I think it’s because my best friend is a girl who has done the same thing for me.

So I got into one of those thoughtful moods on the trip home. I drove from a direction I very rarely drive home from. It seemed so foreign to me. It reminded me of older times when I drove that road to go somewhere rather then getting home. I mean I felt like I was going somewhere instead of just going home. I passed a few streets from prior houses that I’ve lived in. I didn’t take those routes for the obvious reason, I don’t live there any more. I thought that while I live here it doesn’t really define home for me. Home is something I don’t have very often. I don’t think home can be defined by where we live, but what it is we take with us. Home is best friends like Debbie Rudd, and family.

Brad and Heidi became parents yesterday. They have their home, Tim has his, and Bob his. It’s so easy to fall into a state of self pity here, but I know that I have a home, it’s just that I haven’t found her yet. I really want to be home, I don’t really know how to do that.

Have you ever gone to work but came home early? You get in and for one reason or another you don’t stay a full eight hours, maybe you only stay four, or five, but not eight. Now think of how that compares to a long day of work where the clock seems to be too drunk to do it’s job and barely moves at all. One of those days when you want it to hit whatever hour it is that marks the end of your shift so you can go home. Well I don’t have home, and I’m sitting here watching the clock praying that it’ll hit that hour so I can go home. It’s just a long day that’s all, and when I get to go home it will mean that much more because I’ll know I’ve earned it.


I never can quite figure out how these drives home turn into metaphors on life, but I think best in the car.