I heard Steven Curtis Chapman on the radio tonight and he said that. And it did a lot in my mind. If you know me, you know that words have started playing a pretty significant role in my life- hopefully VERY significant soon. So these words started rolling around in my mind- or I guess I started rolling around in them, like I was nine years old in the plastic ball pit at McDonald’s. (Where you would assume the bottom of the pit would be nice and cold but instead it was always a little moist. Ew.)
I started to think about how lucky I am. There are people all over this world who don’t have anywhere to call home. Who literally only have heard rumors of that place. And I’m not just talking about homeless people or orphans. I’m talking about our friends, people we know, who have no safe place. No where to just “be”. Not a one location where they feel comfortable letting go the facade and being real.
And then I started thinking about all the places I get to “be”-
My parents’ house- I spent a few hours there last night, and, as much grief as I’ve given them over the years, that’s home. I get to “be” there. It always feels warm, no matter the temperature. It’s just so right.
The Bedingfields- Where else can ten girls scream at a TV when Lorelai Gilmore comes back from Paris married? And eat cornbread after I’ve learned how to make it real good. And cry when I’m sad because life doesn’t always turn out as good as Caroline’s cornbread.
With the families- for their sake, nameless they shall be. But there are families that I hang out with, the kids and I run around screaming and jumping on trampolines. I can cry there too. The Dads love me and take care of me, threatening to seriously injure any boy that inflicts pain on my heart. (Literally, I’ll tell you the story sometime, just ask.) Moms who teach me how to love their kids while being human. Kids who love unconditionally and are teaching me to do the same.
At the mountain with Haley and Molly- who knew you could laugh and get teary-eyed while sweating profusely walking up the mountain? Be exercising your body and relaxing your heart at the same time.
At FFA-FCCLA for Summer Camp (also, in the olden days, In The Vine). Anyone who has been there more than once knows what I mean- it quickly becomes home. I know it inside out, know shortcuts and long routes, hideouts and places to be seen, and I know the Lord shows up there.
And there are more- with my roommates, in my sweet “French castle”-colored bedroom, at Jittery Joe’s in Athens with Caren, in a car with Danielle, I could continue.
The greatest of all, of course, is with the Lord. There is this picture I think that God put in my head. I won’t disclose it all because, well, it’s mine, but rest assured that I feel more at home there than anywhere. Sometimes I ache for that comfort. For our real home.
So remind me, next time I whine or complain about my life, that I have more – much more – than rumors of a place called home.