Living from several suitcases for about 6 weeks has caused me to think a little about what home really means to me.
I'm talking about home...where you lay your head to sleep, or where you keep the night light on, or those home fires you tender, where you keep the fireplace embers burning on a cold chilly night.
Don't we like to make our home spaces so comfy and familiar?
A deeper thought though has hit my heart about home. Where do you call home?
Is it where you sleep? Where you eat or hang your hat? Is it the place...where on a rainy day you can curl up with a good book on your favorite window seat and get lost on some distant pages that take you to a romantic journey of your dreams? Is it four plain lonely walls that are hollow?
There are some families who will be missing a love this Thanksgiving. So as you are gathering around your homey favorite traditional recipes, counting your blessings, think about those missing, so many empty chairs this holiday season. They have gone Home before us.
They made it Home first.
And that leads me to the truth that we are all on our journey Home, and someday death with come to greet us too. Until God calls us Home, we continue to make nests of comfort here and there. Making our spaces so favorite and pretty, too decorated, functional and cluttered.
We make our homes pleasant, easy, and mostly dirt free.
I posed this question to two of my favorite little missionary friends. They are two of the sweetest little helpers to their mom and dad, who are missionaries to Children's Cup in Swaziland, Africa. They recently returned to Africa from a family furlough to the states.
I asked them, "So coming back home to Africa after visiting your previous home in Minnesota, where is home to you?" They both looked at each other, squirmed a little, thought and then offered an answer.
Their answer was so wise. I didn't let on that God had just illuminated my light bulb in what He was trying to teach me in that moment, I just went on with our little friendly conversation.
Their answer? "Africa." Africa is their home. They have spent more time in the states than they have in Africa, yet Africa was their home, as two young joyful voices explained it was because that's where their mom and dad were.
I didn't need the explanation, I was busy listening to God. At the same He said...
Your home is where I AM.
Home is where their parents are. Of course it makes sense. The very practical answer.
My home is where my Father is. Home is where my Father hangs out. Home is where my Father calls me to be with Him. My home is where there are no borders for my love and trust that is not defined by a destination, not held by four walls, or decorated with a fake faith. My home is where contentment is found and love held dear. Home is where I am honest and undone on the threshold of Holiness.
Home is where I am held best. Home is here...where I AM
Your home is where He is. Home is where my soul bends low in love and worship. Home is where my God is.
Always. Enough. Here.
My home can be where I am, because my Father is always with me. His Spirit dwells deep.
Yes, home is where my parent, my Father is found. I like the cozy His presence brings my heart. I hold my heart space dear for Him.
I think I'll let Him sift more now, to make even more openness, honesty, and softer places gentle. There might be a few more corners to clean, seams to unravel, and shelves to rearrange making even more room for Him to burn and ignite.
Schooch to the side..calendar and ticking clocks. Shoo...you dust bunnies...move over now.
That's better, a bigger room with a view of God, now to unpack, stay a while and be content.
There's something about this space when He walks into a room....I am forever changed.
My heart is at home here where He is.
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