A while ago, Wren and I drove to my parents’ farm in Ohio. Their old Quaker homestead rests in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. It’s really one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen on God’s Earth. As I turned down the lane, knowing that my parents and several of my siblings were waiting for me at the top of the hill, I was filled with a sense of “home.” The following composition is a result of that trip.
Home is where the gravel road is.
Home is where tracks are made.
Home is where history is discovered.
Home is where we are free to run.
And home is where we run to.
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