In the hours and days following the fire, I didn't say much but I did cry - a lot. Not bawling-like-a-baby crying, but random tears just fell when a memory crossed my mind.

What saddened me most was that Christmas was coming fast, and gone were all of our ornaments, many that the kids made over the years and many that were my grandfather's.

No live tree, no decorating the mantle, no placing candles in all 32 windows, no luminaries dotting the driveway.

The week after Thanksgiving was particularly tough. Sitting in the loft apartment rented for me by the insurance company (State Farm really is there when you need it) with the kids still away at college, I indulged in feeling really bad for me.

Never mind that no one was hurt, not even the cats, and that the house eventually will be restored to better-than-before: I still wasn't home.

Then an email from an old high school classmate popped up, letting me know that he had heard about the fire and asking if he could help. I thanked him and said that unless he had a magical way to bring Christmas to my house, I would be OK.

Apparently, he took me literally: 12 hours later, Damon Blankenship, a buddy from high-school, and Lorraine "Ray-Ray" Gumble dropped off a huge Christmas tree with lights and ornaments, a snowglobe, and a dozen Christmas candles.

And, just like that, I realized all the things I thought were missing never really were gone in the first place.

Home may be where things happen, but home also is the space within you. It is who you are, how you treat people, what you give with no thought of getting something in return.

Home is a state of mind and, just like Christmas, you never really lose it - unless you never really had it to begin with.