Quick, what comes to mind when you read that word?
Is it a place? A city? People? A time?
I feel like its a word that's been thrown around a lot in my life recently, and at the moment, like today, I'm not sure I know what it means. The emotion and imagery that the term is supposed to conjure up is well, a bit fuzzy.
A week ago I left home to return to my old home, of which in a few weeks I'll be leaving to go to my new home.
I'm not sure what to do with that.
In the last 11 years, Texas became my home. My "you guys" changed to "ya'lls" and Tex-Mex and Whataburger became, like google and gps on our phones - things I don't remember how I previously survived without. Shoot, I even like football now. And the people. Good gracious, the amazing people He put in my life in that place. From lifelong friendships made at Baylor to life-changing high school students and their families in the Park Cities, yes, this place entered my heart and became my home.
But Chicago is home too. I go home for holidays and stretches of summer. Its the Cubs and hot dogs and Jack's frozen pizza - you know, things my heart holds dear. Oh, and my family. Chicago will always be home, most of all, because that's where my family lives. That's where our memories live. So much of who I am is wrapped up in that group, in those relationships. A part of my inner heart battery drains in time spent away from there, from them, and seems to recharge upon return.
And now Zambia. I suppose some time ago, that place and its people took a piece of my heart as well. But now, at the end of a countdown now marked by days instead of weeks or months, I'll add Lusaka as a third entry in my definition of home.
And today my mind is struggling to conceptualize that.
I'm struggling to navigate through this journey of the heart dividing, but not breaking. People and places claiming such large pieces of it, but as the amount of both grow, I think the capacity of my heart will as well.
I mean it has to.
Because as much as the hands of my heart reflexively attempt to tighten their grip around my homes and the people in them, God seems to be gently, but persistently unclasping my fingers and turing my palms open and upward.
And He wouldn't do that unless He had more planned, more than my world-dimmed heart can imagine. I'm choosing faith in that this morning.
And it's funny, I'm struck with this realization that really any attempts I just made at describing or defining "home" are ridiculous. All of the above wrong.
Because this isn't home.
No physical place or group of people, or food group (as apparently marks alarmingly significant to me) can be truly home. If we weren't made for this world, if our heart's home is really elsewhere, than the open-handedness in which we are called to live this life - with places, and things, and even people; well, it makes sense.
And for some reason, that thought makes my heart flutter a little with anxious excitement.
If the joys we get to experience in our homes here are just shadows of the real thing, then our real home has to be just incredible. The joy experienced there must be indescribable.
Holy smokes, I can't wait.
And that's all I've got right now. That seems somewhat of an unresolved thought, but you can do that with blogs right?
