June 17, 2026
This morning I found myself thinking about my grandparents' hardware store.
It sat right on the town square in our small town, and some of my favorite childhood memories happened there. Customers would come in for nails, tools, or supplies, but what I remember most isn't what they bought.
I remember the conversations.
I remember the coffee.
I remember people lingering long after their errands were finished.
I remember my grandparents helping customers while catching up on family news and town happenings.
We folded the newspaper in the back, and as a little girl, I thought it was all so neat. Looking back, I didn't realize what I was witnessing.
It was community.
For a while, I thought what I missed was the store itself. But as I reflected this morning, I realized that's not entirely true.
I've experienced that same sense of belonging in other seasons of my life.
One of those places was my church family in Floydada.
People knew my story. I knew theirs. We prayed together, celebrated together, and walked through hard seasons together. It wasn't perfect, but it was real.
In many ways, it still is.
We still attend that church, and those relationships still matter deeply to me. But moving changed something. I'm no longer in the everyday rhythm of life there. I'm not part of the spontaneous conversations, the shared routines, or the little moments that happen when you're living life side by side.
And maybe that's why I've been feeling a little nostalgic lately.
Not because I think the past was perfect.
Not because I want to go backward.
But because I miss being known.
Life changes. People move. Children grow up. Communities shift. Sometimes we find ourselves missing places that felt like home.
I've realized that what I'm grieving isn't a building, a town, or even a specific season of life.
I'm grieving the loss of a community that mattered.
Maybe you've felt that too.
Maybe there's a church, a neighborhood, a workplace, or a season of life that still holds a special place in your heart.
If so, I don't think that's weakness.
I think it's evidence of love.
We don't grieve things that never mattered.
We grieve the people, places, and seasons that shaped us.
Today, I'm thankful for every place that has felt like home along the way. And I'm trusting God with the seasons ahead, even when they look different than the ones I miss.
Because while communities change, God remains faithful.
And perhaps every meaningful season is a reminder that belonging is a gift worth seeking, sharing, and cherishing when we find it.
What place from your past felt like home to you?
I'd love to hear your story.