Home Is Where the Hearth Is

Home Is Where the Hearth Is

Home is where the hearth is,  

where flame remembers your name—  

not the house, not the door,  

but the light that waits when you arrive.

It is the place where hands slow down,  

where breath learns it is safe.  

Where stories simmer instead of shout,  

and silence is permitted her proper seat.

Home is where the hearth is—  

where friends drift in like evening mist,  

where family gathers without tallying debts,  

where laughter and sorrow share the same worn chair.

The stranger is welcomed without inquiry.  

The lost are given time to thaw.  

No soul is measured by what they carry,  

only that they troubled themselves to come.

Here, the fire burns with ancient kindness—  

it warms but does not devour.  

It asks nothing save your presence,  

and gives all who draw near their fill.

The hearth remembers what we forget:  

that wealth is counted not in gold,  

but in the number of empty chairs made full,  

in bread broken and shared without ceremony.

Home is where the hearth is,  

where Holy Mother keeps eternal vigil.  

She does not demand profession of faith,  

only that you rest your burdens down.

So come, weary traveler.  

Come, prodigal and pilgrim alike.  

Draw your chair closer to the glow.  

The flame knows your face,  

and has been expecting you.

Sit awhile.  

Let the fire do its gentle work.  

For here, in this circle of light,  

you need not earn your welcome—  

you have always belonged.