Friday, January 29, 2010

Looking for Home

An early evening errand put us at the bottom of the hill shortly after the workday whistle blew. We waited to enter traffic, watching the constant stream of headlights move towards the setting sun as if it was a homing beacon. Stern and weary faces were barely visible, weak sunlight reflecting off the windshields. Mister broke the silence, “Everyone is trying to find their home, Mom.”

“Yes, Son, that is God’s truth.” I answered, chewing on his profound words.
He spoke what his heart knows already, joining centuries of poets and philosophers, who have described human need and human pain in the struggle to be known, safe and finally at rest. Finding home is an important thread in the story of our family. The embedded truth, that we are only visitors here, is the spiritual foundation on which we construct our communal life; walls, windows and roofing providing temporary shelter while we learn to love and serve each other with the days we have been given between here and glory.

Every car trip since his great discovery has been seasoned with a repeat of the conversation. He looks seriously out the window and wills the other drivers to subconsciously share their feelings with him. And then he reminds me that they are searching. Crammed into the Jetta with matching pony tails; smoking alone, with the windows up in the rusted sedan; wearing traditional dress from another country, weighted down by the uphill climb, grocery bags straining in clenched fists; back to the wind at the bus stop, stiff with cold and waiting. All looking for home.

Today at lunch, we discussed again the delay in our beginning together. “I grew in your tummy,” he offered in casual conversation. I gently reminded him that he did not, and asked if he remembered the name of the woman whose tummy he did grow in. We said her name. We got her picture down again and gave her a kiss. This time his brow wasn’t furrowed. I asked if he wanted to keep her picture in his room, so he could look at her and kiss her anytime he liked. “Yes,” he said. “Put it down low, where I can reach it.” I promised I would.

"Hear my prayer, O LORD, and give ear to my cry; do not be silent at my tears; for I am a stranger with You, A sojourner like all my fathers. Psalm 39:12

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