What is home? Is it merely a place of walls and mortar, a roof under which to dwell or is it something more? A feeling, a belonging, a dwelling of the soul?
Growing up, my family moved often, and I never entirely understood what it meant to have a place I could call home. I wandered through childhood searching for that elusive anchor, something to ground me in familiarity. I was the child of Israel in the desert. As an adult, I have come to realize that places hold us. They become the container for our stories, the context in which our lives unfold. Places, like people, anchor us in the certainty that we belong somewhere.
The Steelman Library has been such a place for me. When I first felt called to work here, I believed my calling was based on what I had to give - my wisdom, my intellect. But over time, I’ve come to see that the Steelman Library had more to offer me than I could have ever imagined. I found a home within its walls—a home that offered more than I even knew my heart desired. It was the first inkling that my prayer to follow Jesus more radically had been heard. In Steelman, I felt home for the first time. In the echoes of the laughter of the student workers, in the diligence of the librarians, and the consciousness of the patrons, in the leadership of our dean, in the intentional interactions with students.
And then came the flood. As I walked on the damp carpet and saw the waterlogged baseboards, I felt a strange warmth mixed with pain. It wasn’t just the damage to the building that broke my heart—it was the sense of loss, the feeling that this place, which had anchored me through so many of my own storms, had been ravaged by one of its own. I felt the pang of longing for the familiar comfort this space had always offered, the solace I found within its walls, the countless tears I’d witnessed, the prayers whispered in quiet corners.
But I realized that home isn’t just the walls and the bricks. It’s the people who fill these spaces, the stories they carry within them, the way their presence leaves echoes long after they’ve gone. I’ve watched as students have browsed the shelves, seeking not just knowledge but comfort, a place where they could be seen and heard. I’ve seen students find their voice and discover their callings. In many ways, the Steelman Library has become a sanctuary—a refuge for those seeking rest from the storms of life.
Perhaps home is not just about the place, but the people who inhabit it, the moments we share, the stories we bear witness to. Perhaps the people make Steelman Library more than a building, more than a collection of books. It is a place that holds the sacred stories of every patron, every student, every soul that has walked through its doors. And perhaps, just perhaps, my longing for home—my deep ache for this space—is not merely for the earthly sanctuary it has been but for the home we all long for, the one we will find in heaven.
Steelman Library is not just a library. It is a home, a sanctuary, a place of revival, a sacred space where stories, both in books and in people, come to life. The walls bear witness to the unfolding of lives, and even through the water rise, the stories endure, deepening the meaning of what it truly means to be home.
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Professor Kaitlyn Brett, Director School of Honors
October 14, 2024
