My Father is a builder of physical structures. He has built beautiful houses in his adopted country. There are people still using his cabinets in Regina. Others live in houses that he built. There is a house in Strathmore where he built a set of stairs to the deck. Our old house. Whenever I go to BC I drive by the houses he has built, that I have lived in.

I have never lived in a home that my Father built. I don’t think that he new how to build those. He was a hard working man who did his job, came back to the house, and expected others to do theirs. He didn’t know how to express his feelings, he just shut down. I don’t build, but I know how to shut down.

Where ever I have lived I have never felt at home. I have lived for many years with out a home.  Just over 2 years ago it came to me that I have to become a builder, to build my own home, instead of pining for the one that I never had. I started to reach inside, to that homeless little boy, and  to others, to build my home. My home is in a house in Drumheller, where I live with a beautiful person named Cathy. In this house I now feel at home. I look around and I see not only familiar things, but a home.

I feel at home in meetings, where I reach out to invite others to come into my home, and they hold me, inviting me into theirs. I am at home in a Federal prison, where I work, and try to make a home for others who have no home.

I have discovered that a house is not a home. A home is in my mind. There is a palace in my mind, where I live with you and love. Come home Dad.