Looking out across the great chasm that is the Grand Canyon. Following an overgrown, forgotten path through the woods. Walking across battlefields of wars gone by. Listening to waves crash against centuries-old rocks. God has graciously allowed me to take in many treasured moments like these over the years.
Traveling delights my little soul. To visit a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, to experience some new aspect of a different culture, to learn another piece of history – there is a certain elation that comes with each new adventure. But as thrilling as it is to wander this wonderful world, there’s always a point when it’s time to return from the vacation spot. The experiences become precious memories to look back on, photos on the camera reel of my mind.
For me, there’s something so special about coming home. Walking into the familiar, safe, known spaces of my house always feels like a breath of fresh air. I live for the sweet dreams that overtake me the first night I can sleep in my own bed again.
Since moving to the DR more than 8 years ago, the sense of having somewhere to call home has more or less been stripped away. Yes, we have a beautiful apartment here that is “ours”. But living in a foreign country brings to light the fact that other signs of home are missing. Family, friends and the familiar are more than a car ride away. This missing aspect of home has been one of the tougher pills to swallow as we’ve purposefully chosen this way of life.
Yet Jesus continues to teach me something so sweet.
The idea of home is not in a location. Instead, home is found in a Person. Jesus Himself is my Home. He is the rest my soul craves, the safe haven I need when I’m scared or tired or lonely. In Him, I find everything I need.
I want those around me to see how much He wants to be their Home, too.