On Home (A speech)

My favorite place is home; home—not an exotic location or a mythical land. I can’t tell you about Las Vegas or the mountains of Mordor. I can’t spin a wild adventure for you; I can only tell you of mundane, unromantic home.

My love of home started early. My childhood was filled with the importance of home. It was not that we had a picturesque stately home or the all-American farm house. In fact, we moved all the time. One of my most prominent childhood memories is the moving van and boxes as far as the eye could see. One year we lived in a large house with a large pound, another year we lived in my grandma’s basement. What made home important was our family. It was strong family that defined my childhood, not the houses we passed through.

While my childhood built a foundation, it was not till I traveled to the dark heart of the Middle East that I truly understood the blessings of home. I still remember clearly our platoon Sergeant ordering us all to head back to the house at the end of our patrols. It was one of the most meaningful word phrases of my life—“Head back to the house.” Each and every day we would go out into a city ruled by violence and hate. Each and every day we all tried make it, “back to the house.” Some days it was a goal unaccomplished. After a year of days, those of us who were left returned again to our homes; I made it back to my house. Only when death is a constant companion do you understand the safety of home.

Today, though, if you ask me why home is my favorite place, it not because of memories and feelings of safety. It is much more personal and simple. Now when I come home after a long day of school I find dinner waiting for me. My home is not filled with silent books and abstract internet searches. I find conversation, interesting and complex. Old chores like washing dishes become an exercise in companionship. My house breathes life and personality; my own house has become a home. Home is where my wife is. My favorite place is home.