Home

As he declined into dementia, my father was always asking to go home. "Home" was at first the place where he grew up, the house on Lavender Avenue in Baltimore, to which he proposed to improbably walk all the way from Texas. Eventually "home" meant just going to bed in his room.

But what he was really behind all these requests was the desire for his real home, the definitive Home, the One that all our earthly homes reflect but imperfectly, and toward which all our longings converge.