Home is a nebulous concept for me these days, one that I have been pondering since we hit American soil in September. Long ago I stopped referring to the US as "home" if for no other reason than that it confused the Chinese born kiddos. Plus, I had a home. There.
Now that home is someone else's and this one I am squatting in is, apparently, mine. Of course after just one month it doesn't "feel" like home yet.
But what is home?
When I go to my parents' house in Minnesota, I feel like I am at home, but it's their home, not mine. Walking into the church where my family attended from the time I was 11 until recently, I was overwhelmed with a sense of being at home.
But home is more than a place. On Christmas Eve, we had dinner with the same family with whom we ate last year in China. Christmas Day, we got together with friends who lived and worked with us for most of the time we lived in Asia. A couple nights ago, we hosted a family we have known since our days in Singapore. Each time, I felt a sense of being at home.
So what is home?
I think home is anywhere or anyone who holds your history. It's the people and places where you have known and been known, loved and been loved.
As I think back on my life, I am so grateful that the path God has taken us has given me homes all over the world. I used to mourn the fact that America has lost some sense of home for me, but in exchange my experience of home has broadened so I rejoice.
Best of all, I have experienced God as my home in all those places. It's a wild feeling to be on the other side of the world and grasp the knowledge that God is God there as well, just as present, just as much everything that He is anywhere. He holds my history. In Him I am known, I am loved, I live.