I knew now… why I could feel homesick at home. — G.K. Chesterton
O Come O Come Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
I don’t remember much of the particulars of that conversation. I remember fumbling around for words as my fingers cupped and cupped again the white coffee cup. I remember the black and white tile, the glint of green that made you feel like you were at a Gatsby party. I’d peeled off the winter layers, plopping down on the chair while she sat in the booth, me trying to get to the heart of what it means to be a writer and a person of faith. She listening. Both of us aching to put words to calling and confusion.
It was a simple coffee date with an established writer who could tell me about this artist life. But it held all the ache of what was, what is, and what might be. Now, in memory, there are only images and pictures — there are no words — just glistening eyes and still that longing to know what it is any one of us was born to do.
Now, on any given Sunday morning, I’m swaying on the front row, my body moving to the beat of the heart of God. I think if I can get my body into it maybe then I’ll recapture that elusive spiritual epiphanic moment of my teens when God was close in the hiddenness of quiet prayer, journaling, and reading. Then it seemed all the world opened in possibility.
Now, the movements of the Spirit are quieter.
Whether there’s spiritual clarity or not, these days I’ve got to figure out a way to form the ache and the hope into my limbs, in song.
So I sway. I raise my hands. I hear our congregation sing. I raise my hands at the benediction. I wonder: Will God come down today? Will he make himself known? Will he crack open hard hearts like mine? Will he make his home with us once more?
O come, o come, Emmanuel.
The End of the Road
My favorite story is of the lost boy walking home on a dusty path, rehearsing his apology speech. And there on on ordinary day, the wonder in the Father’s eye grows when he sees this son return. He picks up his respectful robes and runs like a boy, lungs pumping, legs shaking, motivated all by love that overflows like wine. Because his boy has come home. Home was once again home.
But, us? We can still feel ourselves homesick even at home. So we wait.
This ache for home is in all of us — this deep hunger for belonging, to be a part of a community that sees you as you are and yet loves you because and in spite of yourself.
We yearn for a home where we are seen, acknowledged, celebrated and given good work to do. We long to be placed in a way that fits — a home that draws out our doubts and makes room at the table.
There, at home, we imagine we’d stop obsessing about ourselves, and do good work because it simply was good. The sort of work that was pleasurable and true, if not a trifle uncomplicated.
Instead we walk around, aching. Both aching for what was and for what will be. Sandwiched in-between the “already” and “not yet” and wondering what it is we were born to do.
We’ve traveled far from home. It is the distance that shows us in fact, what home is.
Is home always lost? Can it ever be found? Can we ever inhabit the glorious present?
Or, are we always, on this side of the Garden and on this side of Heaven, waiting — our hips swaying, our hands cupping coffee cups just hoping for Christ to appear?
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