“What is home?” I asked aloud in prayer on my way home from work the other day. The tears swelled in my eyes. I tried to blink them away as I drove.
“Is it a place? A feeling? A person?”
I thought of my family and friends back in California and the tears began to rush.
“Stop it!” I instructed myself, “Driving is no time for crying!”
My mind soon spaghettied to another thought and I went about the day. Still, in the back of my mind that question remained. In fact, it’s been there for quite some time.
Everything changed when my older brother, sister-in-law, and 1 year old nephew announced they’d be moving away from my hometown to Michigan. Suddenly, home stopped feeling like home. A few months later they moved and nothing was the same. My parents and I were left in a town and a house that used to feel so full. Dad and mom were busy with work and church. I worked part-time while finishing school. It all became quite lonely. Something in my life needed to change.
“And the day came when the risk it took to
remain tight it a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” - Anais Nin
A
series of events occurred and soon I was transplanted in west Michigan, back
with my big brother and his family and now with an amazing guy of my own. Life
was full of newness and incredible blessing, but it was not an easy time. The
challenges of new independence and growth were deep and unexpected. Yet, each
day was patiently guided by Christ.
Throughout
this whole journey, even with the peace of knowing He is leading me, that
question has persisted.
“What is home?”
After
two and a half years in Michigan, it still does not feel like home. Two and a
half years ago when I moved, California no longer felt like home.
Though
my husband and I are devoted to each other in love and respect, joyfully
sharing every aspect of life together and daily learning the gift of interdependence,
we cannot look to each other as home. Throughout my childhood and
into my young adult years my parents and siblings offered me a sense of
comfort and belonging, but I cannot look to them as home. It is not their responsibility.
So
the question remains.
Adam
and I have our own place; it is paid for by us, cared for by us, cooked in by
us, decorated by us, and enjoyed by us. Yet still, here I am asking this question.
A
few weeks ago we became serious about house hunting. We have outgrown our
quaint apartment and need to spread out a bit. Everyone tells us that we will
just know which house is meant to be our home when we walk into it. After years
of asking my question, I smile
and nod at their encouragement with silent doubt that it is true.
“What is home?”
It
is not a place, though I know He will provide Adam and me with the right house
for us; it is not people, though He gives us loved ones to share our lives
with; it is not a feeling, though He allows us to feel deeply.
All
I can do is surrender my question again and again to my King. As I leave this
question at His feet and turn my focus onto His splendor, He leads me into the
quiet peace of His presence and reminds me of the truth as many times as I need to
hear it.
"What is home?" I ask.
"What is home?" I ask.
“My child," He answers, "I am.”
Sanctified and Surrendered by Caitlin Marie Stacy is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
1 comment:
It is rare (in my experience) that one as young as you understands this. An old hymn says, "This world is not my home; I'm just a'passin' through." We have a home, "eternal in the heavens." (1 Cor. 5:1) That you feel such a thing is a credit to your spiritual sensitivity... but then I already knew that about you.
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