I long for Home.
It’s a feeling that makes sense. I live overseas, and as the time passes away from loved ones and dear places, the longing grows.
Yet I wonder whether it isn’t something more. Something deeper. Somewhere within me I desire a much older-younger land, a place without time, a country almost within sight.
For seven or so decades we travel the sea, having left the shore on one side for a journey of colours, scents and tastes across the smooth waters of play and nature and weekend rest, and the turbulence of relationships, working hours and sickness. No matter the path, the voyage always ends with cragged rocks and misty seas, creaky wooden ships and poor visibility.
And then the shore. It is a landing that none have come back to tell of. Except maybe One, yet He was called Son.
I long for the place where all the sweet childhood moments gather, after leaving us, or us leaving them, where they are kept in their purest form—the laughter around the campfire, the sound of crickets, shooting stars above, the splash and sun-screened faces of summer, the giggling days, all bottled up with the fizz of youth in a sea too vast to measure.
Then the field of middle years, of wild flowers, spices and kisses of loved ones. Treasures of memory vast and good and nourishing.
The place I long for fits the landscapes longed for my by friend Tsering sipping yak butter tea in Lhasa, little Ahmed watching the news on his dad’s knee in Jeddah, Saroj doing his homework under mango trees in Kathmandu, and Natasha catching the snowflakes in Moscow. It’s where you and I and everyone are always, always welcome.
I, like most of the world, live in an apartment. We hear the neighbours, they hear us. The door bells buzz, ringing out when someone comes to sell or convince you of the latest thing, a religion or a product, all the neighbours are invited. What if Jesus showed up at our door, looking not like a traveling salesmen, but more like a friend, inviting friends to follow him, home.
So many questions to ask, why did she go so soon? Where is my dear friend now? Sometimes I get sad, people get old, children grow up, we go our separate ways. But the longing remains. And the look on the face of the man waiting to be let in. A man who somehow makes Home in our homes, makes the longing begin and become something so real, so eternal, life lived abundantly now, forever.
Photo by Anthony & Paz Lax