I’ve often pondered what the word “home” means—because I’ve felt at home in many different places over the years!
Born and raised in Michigan, teenage years in New Zealand, longish trips back to the States, a trip to Tasmania, one to Hastings, another to a tiny out-of-the-way place in south Canterbury, weekends at Kaikoura for eight years….
Each time I look at pictures of those places, or go back to them, I feel a certain rest when I get there.
These are my mountains. This is my road. These are my people.
Some places have a stronger tug than others, of course. And yet, life continues moving—a steady thread pulling me forward, until I fear that if I take time to look back, I’ll miss out on the now.
A week and a half ago, I came home again, back to my family, back to the green pastures and quiet purplish mountains visible across the winding rivers. And while I know and feel that I’m at home, there’s a restlessness there, too. This transition between being with one family that has become “my” family, and my flesh-and-blood-family is hard sometimes.
Because I love them both.
And I’m thankful for this—this grief of what is now past, and this looking ahead to what will be. I don’t know what the next weeks will look like—while things like a permanent job are definitely up in the air, another opportunity has come up in its place.
God has a way of bringing unexpected, sometimes uncomfortable, things into our lives. Lord willing, I’ll be heading away again in about a week’s time to help another family with a daughter who has been unwell for many years. I’m expecting this to be stretching in ways I’ve never dealt with before, but I know I will also learn a lot, and find out again just how good the Lord is and how much we can rest in Him.
But for this week, I’m home. And whatever situation I end up in next, that will become “home” too, so I’m thankful.
God is good.