Home. Possibly the finest of four-letter words. It is both a physical place and an untouchable feeling; four walls but also four (more or less) people.
Home should be the place one goes to be comfortable, to be safe, but mine has not been that place lately. For the last three weeks, I have lugged around a trash bag with some clothes, a book bag with a computer and toiletries and Moby-Dick, and now a tote bag with some groceries, a vest, and sneakers. I have worn and washed and reworn and rewashed the same few outfits, which were not always appropriate for the strangely humid October weather. I have gone from apartment to farm to house to apartment to farm again, blessed to have hospitable friends and family. I have dog sat and baby sat and bought baked goods to earn my keep, to show my thanks, to just have a bed in which to sleep. I am exhausted and just want to go home. But, haven’t I been there this whole time?
Picture this: A warm, sunny day. You and a kindred spirit fill two rocking chairs on a back porch overlooking verdant fields. Cows grazing. Two friendly, lazy dogs sitting nearby. Everything feels peaceful and quite nearly perfect. Home?
Picture this: A dining room swelled by candlelight. You and eight of your nearest and dearest fill the chairs around the table. Plates full of food. Glasses full of wine. Laughter and love permeate the air. Home?
Picture this: A resplendent, golden monstrance. You and perfect strangers (new acquaintances?) fill the pews of the small chapel. Voices lifted in song. Heads cocked in contemplation. Jesus is with you and you are with Him. Home?
These are just a few of the moments I felt at home the past three weeks, despite being a vagabond. In the face of stress, paranoia, and asking why Lord why, I experienced some of the most overwhelmingly peaceful moments, right moments, of my entire year. Perhaps it is something akin to Mary and Joseph staying in a humble barn, but receiving the greatest gift of all. Or the apostles going from village to village, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, relying on the goodness of others. Somehow, in the most vulnerable and broken of moments, we can be open to the most beautiful expressions of grace.
Home can sometimes be a fortress. My home is an assertion of my independence. It is proof that, like Mary Tyler Moore, I can make it on my own. It is a place I can be myself and think only of myself. The last few weeks have urged me to lean on others, which is something I often struggle to do. I enjoy being the host, the helper, the shoulder to lean on. I am not accustomed to being the receiver or the one in need. I never want to ask for help, to admit I don’t have it all together. Circumstances being what they are, I had to ask. I had to go out on a limb, humble myself, and put myself at the mercy and hospitality of others. And you know what? All those adages proved true. Ask and you shall receive. Call and you shall be answered. Friends in need are friends indeed. By opening myself to others, I did not diminish, but rather increased.
Home. Is looking at my pictures, cooking in my kitchen, watering my plants. Is sleepovers, nights out, and pleasant company. Is routine, calling a place my own. Is being cared for and resting my independent bones. Home is all these things, and so much more. May we welcome home into our lives, in all its iterations, trials, and joys.
Oh, my home has bed bugs. Are you itchy now?
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