11.8 // Home

Benson’s favorite part of today was trying on some authentic Indianapolis Colt’s gear: shoulder pads, pants, shoes, jersey, the whole gamut.
Olivia’s favorite part of the day was designing fashionable outfits with various textures, ribbons, and fabrics.
And my favorite part was watching some strangers feed catfish.

I’ll explain:

This morning Jackson and I took the kids to the Indianapolis Children’s Museum. We also met Anna and her beautiful little kiddos for a day of exploring. Together we spent the afternoon chasing our kids— for we were definitely outnumbered— and coordinating potty breaks and nursing sessions with a million other over caffeinated, stroller-weaving parents and squirrelly elementary kids on field trips. And while the chaos of the museum felt distracting at times, there was something wonderful about being in the noise together.

We are both new(ish) to Indiana and have a shared community in Spring Arbor, Michigan. In fact, we both love Spring Arbor— the school, the people, the place, the quirks. We all worked there, fell in love there, studied there, were married there, served there. We learned who we are in that little town.
And there is a homesickness in being away from it. Even though Jackson and I left Spring Arbor years ago, we still ache for it.

So we can walk around this massive place as new friends bonded by this shared sadness and a common love.

Shared sadness, common love.
This is why teachers can effortlessly strike up conversations in Starbucks while grading on the weekends;
Or why Kansas fans find solidarity chanting “Rock Chalk” at each other in the grocery store;
Or why moms just laugh they see another woman’s child insist on pushing the stroller with mismatched socks and leftover breakfast smeared all over their face.
There is this shared experience of being human: the good, the bad, the ugly.
Without explaining, the other person just gets it.

And this is most true with our sense of home.

Later, after Anna left, we went to the science exhibit where Benson likes to pretend in the combine simulator and Olivia oodles over the geodes and crystals.
In the center of the exhibit, they have a small aquarium with local pond life: frogs, turtles, and yes, catfish. And it was during their feeding demonstration that my heart was stirred. I could hear the Spirit echo in the words of the presenter: a wild lady with thick glasses, eye glitter, and a neon orange utility vest.

Lest we think that God is restrained to churches or holy ground—
He moves through you and me and our kids and our neighbors.
Even the catfish lady.

So this peculiar scientist stood above the tank and started the session by asking the kids about habitats.
And as she received input from her rowdy audience of five year olds, she responded:

“A habitat is where living things are at home. And we are at home where we feel safe, where we are comfortable, and where we can live well together.”

It was as if cat fish lady knew the inner ache in me and just pressed on it hard.
And long after we left the cat fish and the tank and the museum and the kids were fast sleep in bed, I thought about her definition of home.

Thankfully, the examen makes us confront these things.
Tonight it gently tugs and asks, Why did that statement make such an impression on your heart? Why do you think this definition of home stuck with you more than anything else today?

Maybe because home has been a vague concept for us over the years.
We’ve moved a lot.
We’ve lived in a lot of houses and states and towns; We've lived with a lot of family and friends and neighbors;
We’ve lived in changing bodies.

And while there has been a lot of adventure, there has been a lot of transition:
New beginnings.
First days.
Small talk.
Loneliness.

Homelessness like this can leave you feeling like a catfish out of water.
Returning to your old house or hometown doesn’t fix it because it has grown and moved on without you.
Your “people” can’t be your only oxygen because the extent of our human needs will smother each other.
Even striving to be home “in your own skin” is incomplete because the definition of home requires “togetherness.”
And as I approach thirty and continue to recover from this third delivery, I find that my own body is not always comfortable or safe either.

All of our places and spaces and people are sources of great delight and inspiration, gratitude and life.
But I am not so sure any of them can be my truest home.
They all move and transform to stay alive.
And so do I.

So where do I feel safe and comfortable with others?
Where is my home?

As I go to bed tonight, I think of Abram, a man God called into a new home in Genesis 12:

God told Abram: “Leave your country, your family, and your father’s home for a land that I will show you. I’ll make you a great nation and bless you… and you’ll be a blessing to the whole world.”

And so Abram leaves. He packs everything and everyone and hits the proverbial road.
As he moves from place to place, God speaks to him in love and with new promises, and Abram responds in gratitude by building altars. Even when Abram and Lot separate and life continues to change and feel less known, God speaks assurance to him:

“Open your eyes, look around. Look north, south, east, and west. Everything you see, the whole land spread out before you, I will give to you and your children forever. I’ll make your descendants like dust—counting your descendants will be as impossible as counting the dust of the Earth. So—on your feet, get moving! Walk through the country, its length and breadth; I’m giving it all to you.”

Two things:
First, it seems as if God calls him to less of a new place but more to a new way of being.
Go to the land I will show you. Get moving. Walk all over it.
God is calling Abram to be with Him wherever he goes, whoever he is with, no matter the circumstance.

And so like most components of the Christian life, it seems like home is more of a paradox.
Home is when you are moving with God, journeying with him, pilgrimaging.
And while I know many saints who have stayed in the same time for their entire life— my great grandparents, the Benson’s, being one of some of those people— they too are truly at home when they are with God.
Or maybe when they are aware of his constant presence.

So how do I make myself at home in God?

This imperative questions brings me to the second point:
Look how God calls Abram into encouragement and hope in Genesis: “Open your eyes, look around.”
Notice. Look at everything.
All of this will be your home.
Everywhere and anywhere is your home because I am.
You will find me wherever you take time and look, notice, and practice gratitude— wherever you build an altar in this world.

As I get ready for bed, I remember my little John Taylor baby and how, as we walked the museum, he slept soundly while wrapped around my chest. Even through all the noise and new places, he was held tight and warm and close to my heart— all at rest. I know he sleeps peacefully in this little contraption because it replicates the home he knew before he was born.
My body was his first home.
And the closer he is to me, the closer he feels to his first home.
The sound of my heart, my voice, even my smell (as weird as that is) makes him feel comfortable and safe. And we are together. The definition of home.

And so maybe it is the same with God.
It is realizing that He, too, is my first home— knowing me before I was born, in my mother’s womb.
And He remains as near as my breath wherever I go, whoever I am with.
Do I hear His heartbeat here? Do I see Him? Can I smell the sweetness of Spirit at work all around?

In this life, He is constant and steady, faithful and unchanging. He is the rock-solid home that I can build my house and family and life everything else on.
For He is with us always, even to the end of the age.
Like Abram, I simply have to notice.

And so the examen reveals my ache for home.
And the Lord meets me in that ache and offers Himself tonight and tomorrow and the days after that.
May we continue to notice His nearness and make our home in His love.