Home

Home is where I live, the place where I define myself, the place where I am most likely to be just me.

If I am tired, I want to go home. If I am afraid, I run for home. It is where I am loved and safe, my fortress, my haven from everything else in the world.

Walking in and discovering that the sanctity of my home has been violated by a hostile creature, someone who has ransacked it, or gone through my personal possessions, or taken away pieces of me, is shattering.

If I am not safe in my own home, where can I be safe? If I cannot leave loved ones, or cherished articles in my home and know they will be safe, is anywhere safe?

A burglary leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. There is no place that is safe, no place to let my guard down, or rest, anymore. In a sense, I am homeless for a while, at least until the bruises and scars fade from my mind.

The only thing worse is thinking that the one who did this to me is someone I love, or know, or once allowed into my life. Innocently trusting and perhaps caring for them makes me twice as vulnerable.

Until you live through what the world calls a simple break in, you have no idea how much goes out the door with that burglar…

Even if they got away with nothing.