By Larissa Darter 
My favorite place in the world
isn’t across the ocean.
It’s not a vineyard,
not a cobblestone street,
not some far-off wonder
etched in stone or story.
It’s right here—
in the quiet hum of our backyard.
Under leafy halls that echo with laughter,
I sit in a frayed camping chair.
It knows the shape of me.
My toes press into soft grass,
my coffee in desperate need of a reheating,
my hair in a bun–high and haphazard.
No makeup.
No plans.
Just green carpet floors and blue canopy skies.
The kids run wild—
barefoot and loud,
turning trees into bases,
sticks into swords.
A treehouse becomes a kingdom full of knights.
It’s not glamorous.
Breakfast cereal is spilled everywhere.
Lunch is PB & Js each requested their own special way.
Dinner is simple, hot dogs on the grill,
before the sun sinks low behind the fenceline.
But it’s here—
where they pile on top of their dad,
giggling and breathless,
watching The SandLot way past bedtime.
Like turning pages they’d never read before,
where their wonder
beckons me to reclaim mine.
It’s here—
that I look across the yard,
feel his hand in mine,
and whisper,
“Thank You, Lord,
for this little life,
because I might have been chasing the next shiny thing.”
Because this—
this simple view—
has become cherished.
It doesn’t ask for much.
Just my heart,
and maybe a little stillness.
A pause,
long enough to notice all that’s in front me.
And the more I give it,
the more I love it.
This ordinary ground.
This frayed camping chair.
Sticky fingerprints. Scattered shoes.
Colorful paper scraps, residue from afternoon crafts like confetti from a party, sprinkle the floor.
Evidence of joy that has passed through.
Holy chaos.
Yet inside it there is a calm.
My favorite place in the world
isn’t across the ocean.
My favorite place, I’ve come to know,
is right here—
where love can grow.
by Ellie Hunja 
by Tynea Lewis 
by Megan Vollmer 
