Happy New Year, friends!
For the past five weeks, I have been home. And for the past five weeks, I have been away from home. “Home” itself seems to be such a fluid concept these days, more difficult to define as its boundaries extend.
For awhile, I went home to a cozy little dorm room, usually full of Christmas lights and dear friends. Every visit to them still feels like home.
I left my school home to move back to my family home—the one with the most precious people in my life, where I didn’t actually have a bedroom but still somehow had a home.
I moved to Uganda, with three suitcases full of clothes and towels and sheets and art supplies. And when I stepped onto the tarmac, I was home.
These are all my home.
How is it that the more homes I discover, the more homeless I feel?
I love that my Jesus is one who knows what it is to have many homes and no home—much more so than I. It’s fitting that, if I want to become more like him, I should also feel the strange tug of the wandering soul.
Because that is, of course, the heart of it. That we are all of us wandering souls. That we cannot be truly at home in a place that contains only the finite. That, to borrow the words of a beautiful film, we are infinite. And in this world, that will always leave us homeless.
And so I will continue to make my home in the places I land, knowing that I will be simultaneously apart from my home. But that silent tug, that rushing of an underground river, is pulling me constantly forward—eagerly expectant, always in anticipation.
Someday we will all be home.
“What is the human condition, this timeless question? To take the most global approach, we could say that it is the riddle of why none of us feels really at home in this world. We’re not consciously aware of this uneasiness every minute, of course; with enough entertaining distractions, we can hold it at bay. Almost unheard but still persistent, it rushes in the background of our lives like an underground river…”