Feels like home to me, Feels like home to me, feel’s like I’m all the way back where I belong.
Another airplane, Another sunny place, I’m lucky, I know, But I wanna go home, I’ve got to go home.
We’re in Michigan, the land that birthed me, broke me and forever holds me captive.
This is the place I know, the seasons I understand: Sundays at the beach with a box of wheat thins and winters with snow suited kids waddling up sledding hills. Boxes of blueberries, endless evergreen trees and miles of sparkling water.
I’m not saying it’s perfect, driving along the train tracks where my mom died or the street we used to live on still stands my hair on end and steals the air from my lungs. These streets are haunted by many ghosts, yet still they feel like a well worn hoodie and jeans. When I slip into them I feel like the purest form of myself, stripped down and comfortable in my skin, known and loved.
I want to share every bit of this with Noelle and Caedmon, to infuse this cozy Michigan beauty into their childhood memories.
So, what do I pray for? Freedom from being bound here or a window to return?
I’m 30, I’m the Momma, I’m the one who is supposed to weave the strength of home around our family. I thought when I found myself a Matriarch I would have a stronger sense of what home really is, but I don’t.
I know all the right answers, that home is our family together, home is resting in my father God, home is in the mystery of our marriage.
Yet there is still this little girl inside me that longs to curl up in the old corners of my life for a while. Christmas as it used to be, traditions kept, I don’t think you ever outgrow that desire to curl up in your Mom’s lap and be held.
How do I get to a high altitude place where geography of home doesn’t matter in the light of the joy and contentment God’s offering me?
The more I open up this aching “home hole” to him the more he whispers to me that all his children are longing for home in him, one that isn’t made of wood or earth.
He reminds me that this ache goes deeper than a house or even death but straight to the fact that he alone knows me fully and holds me perfectly. He knows and loves each freckle and scar.
He’s constantly assuring me that it’s okay to ache for home in all its forms, on heaven and earth, in skin and old couches.
It’s comforting that this ache is universal, that you and I are both aching. The best thing we can do today is prayer our eyes are wife open to breathe in those moments where our heaven home crashes into our right now. Those quiet moments are simple and deeply nourishing if we allow ourselves to drink them in.
Baby feet padding toward the kitchen, a deep belly laugh, sweet berries right off the vine, the way the sunset seems new every evening.
Do you ache like me? How do you see our heaven home crashing into your right now?