When my husband left the Army, we settled into what I thought would be our forever home in the suburbs of Atlanta. We renovated, planted roots, and built a community. For the first time in years, I felt like we could finally exhale.

We poured ourselves into that house — choosing the perfect marble backsplash for the kitchen, laying subway tile in a herringbone pattern behind the vanity. We hosted pool parties and play dates, built friendships in the neighborhood, and found a rhythm of belonging. I even began to imagine our future there: prom pictures on the staircase, graduation photos on the front lawn, holiday gatherings where the kids would return home as adults.

But just two and a half years later, we were uprooted again — this time to Tennessee.

Leaving was hard. Our three young children had to say goodbye to their teachers and friends. I had to release the dream of raising them in the house we had worked so hard to shape into a home. And though God had clearly prepared the way, the decision came fast, only three months from sensing His nudge to watching the moving truck drive away.

That’s the thing about grief — it isn’t only mourning what was, but also what could have been. I grieved not just the home we created, but the future I had envisioned within its walls.

We arrived in Tennessee the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The new house was filled with boxes. Rooms echoed with unfamiliar silence. My childrens’ bedrooms didn’t yet feel like theirs. I felt displaced, tired, and raw. Everything familiar was gone, and I longed for something steady to hold onto.

That’s when I noticed it: a box labeled “Christmas stuff” sitting in the middle of the living room. Somehow it had escaped being shoved to the garage. Without hesitation, I opened it. Out came the garland, the lights, and the nativity set. With packing tape still handy from the move, I secured the garland to our new staircase. The tree went up before most of the kitchenware had been unpacked. The nativity scene claimed its spot before the books found their shelves.

In the middle of the unknown, I turned to what was known.

That December, our house didn’t feel finished, but it did feel like home. The glow of the tree reminded me of Emmanuel — God with us (Matthew 1:23 NIV). The garland, draped in a new place, reminded me that traditions can travel with us. And the nativity set whispered that the presence of Jesus, not the stability of circumstances, is what truly anchors us.

I think of Mary and Joseph, far from home the night Jesus was born. Surrounded by unfamiliar smells of animals and hay, they cradled the greatest gift the world has ever known. Their story reminds us that even in displacement, God’s presence brings belonging.

Home was together, in the midst of unpacked boxes, beneath the glow of the Christmas lights, with Christ at the center. When life uproots us, we often grasp for something steady. For me that year, it was Christmas decorations. For others, it might be a daily routine, a favorite Scripture, or the embrace of a loved one. Whatever it looks like, clinging to what is true and eternal will steady us in seasons of transition.

Because no matter where we are or how “unfinished” life feels, God is with us. And His presence is what makes any place home, even when home isn’t where you thought it would be.