In October of this year, our family will celebrate the fact that this home is the place where we have lived the longest together. The bar is low: our record is only four years and ten months in one location.
My husband and I started our life together in a tiny basement apartment near downtown Minneapolis. We then spent thirteen years in Asia: six homes in two countries. When we moved back to the U.S., we lived another three months with family before settling here. The idea of having a permanent, long term place is foreign to us.
But in place of permanence, my view of home has expanded.
Because while I’m thrilled that I might actually be in this place long enough to see the young trees in our yard grow tall and strong, that’s not what makes this place home.
I’ve learned that home is found in the places and people who hold my history. It’s in the moments when I can be myself completely, places where my soul can rest.
I experienced it in the close knit communities we discovered overseas, groups of people trying to figure out together how to live the expat life.
I felt at home in the smiles that lit on the faces of people who recognized the foreigner come back again to buy their produce at the market.
I found it on a college campus in a country where God is unknown, listening to worship songs that reminded me of God’s presence with me even on the far side of the sea.
I am at home here on holidays, when we celebrate every year with the same friends who have become like family.
I feel it every time I walk into the church I grew up in, where I can practically hear the echoes of our young voices in the halls.
I experience that sense of belonging in our church now, as I walk past familiar faces and there are actually people I want to talk to during meet and greet.
I see it in the faces of my family members who peer back at me over Facetime, our hearts connected over thousands of miles of distance.
I am home in a good conversation that saturates my soul with assurance that I’m not alone and everything will be ok.
I know it in a long walk with an old friend, when the years between dissolve as we pick up where we left off.
I find it in the relief that floods me when my husband comes through the door after traveling the globe, because part of my home has come back to me.
The smell of pancakes and bacon calls me back to family breakfast at my grandfather’s house, while the aroma of roti prata takes me back across the ocean to a group of friends sharing meals on a Sunday morning after church.
I even find it in the deepest moments of loneliness, when God whispers to me that the home I’m really searching for is His love. In the most isolated places, we still belong to Someone.
Home is less about a place and more about assurance—here you are seen, known, loved, kept. Here you have known life. As Jen Pollock Michel puts it in her book Keeping Place, “Home is the place for being recognized, received, remembered.”
God is the author of home. All of these places He has given me as a gift, both the tangible and intangible experiences. They all remind me that though I might struggle to find permanent roots on this earth, He is always providing places for me.
And from those places of belonging, we are called to be home for other people, to make a place for them to rest their souls and to know they are welcome as well.
- The Stories We Make Up - April 28, 2020
- Freedom - November 25, 2019
- Free to Be Me - February 28, 2019
6 thoughts on “Finding Home”
Gina, what grace to find your words here today, building a beautiful image of all the tangibles and intangibles that make “home” such a foundational reality for life on this planet. I loved Jen’s book too, and am still processing all the reasons she gave me for being thankful.
To be home for other people….that is a great joy. This topic resonates deep within. I appreciate your part of the story.
Debby-so glad it resonated! That’s encouraging.
“God is the author of home.” I love that. As someone who struggles mightily with anxiety and insecurity, I’m always seeking safety. What a great little sentence, a way of remembering that safety is where He is – and there is nowhere that He isn’t. I can be home anywhere, because I have Him.
Marie-I love your takeaway from this! That’s really beautiful, and so true.
As my family come to terms with eventually having to leave what has become our home in the U.S. to return to our “home” country, the UK, I find myself longing for a place that I suspect doesn’t exist. My hometown exists as an idealized past and an imagined perfect future that is bound to disappoint. This line is something I need to keep repeating in the days ahead. “Home is less about a place and more about assurance—here you are seen, known, loved, kept.”