We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes…
–Madeleine L’Engle, from The Rock That Is Higher

I came across this quote online today.  I find I appreciate Madeleine L'Engle's books more now than I did as a child--there is a depth to them I failed to understand when I was younger.  I may make it a goal to read more of her books this summer.

Thoughts on Home...

I came across an Emily Dickinson quote today (quote is pulled from www.goodreads.com):

They say that "home is where the heart is."  I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.

And a friend once said:

Home is where the majority of your possessions are.

(An apt description for those of us whose lives are a bit more mobile...)

And others say things like:

Home is where you lay your head.

Or home can be people:

Wherever you are is home to me.

Or sometimes a place:

Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam...

Or an occupation or way of life.

Is it singing like Chris LeDoux:

I'll make my home beneath these western skies...

With certainty:

When I die, you can bury me beneath these western skies...

Is home a definition, a resting, a peace?

Or is home an action, a constant moving forward?

You know, a dream is like a river, ever changing as it flows,
And a dreamer's just a vessel that must follow where it goes... (of Garth Brooks fame...)

A journey? 

And I'll sail my vessel 'til the river runs dry... (Garth Brooks again...)

Or as the Sons of the Pioneers sang it:  (from www.cowboylyrics.com)

I know when night has gone
That a new world is born at dawn.

I'll keep rolling along
Deep in my heart is a song
Here on the range I belong
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds...

To renounce what one has is a minor thing;
To renounce what one is, that is asking a lot.
                                                              --Gregory the Great

"Might as well share, might as well smile..."

I have found myself singing random songs this week, many of which are songs I haven't heard in quite some time.  Upon reflection, I found they all cover a very similar theme.  Can you spot it?

Death is a monster

Jagged scrawls on a ragged page

Relentless

Consuming

Tearing apart

Brokenness

                             and

                                                       Agony

But he said to me,

"My grace is sufficient for you,

                         for my power is made perfect in weakness"... (2 Cor 12:9 NIV)

The rugged pathways...

I heard this song on the radio for the first time today and thought I would post it here.

I am thankful today for people stepping out from the fog.  For new friendships and opportunities that step into life unexpectedly.  They are welcome surprises. 

Life can be hard, but it has its blessings, too.  And as I look at all the changes that have happened here in the past few weeks, the past few months, I am grateful.  And as I know others who are in the opening days of their new struggle, I am reminded of the verse in 2nd Corinthians that says we are comforted so we in turn can go and comfort others.  If we didn't walk that dark road, if we didn't learn and grow and receive from God in the midst of it, we would be unable to relate, unable to give what we have gained by going through it. 

There was a time several years ago where I asked God for a quick fix, but I am seeing now that walking the road has allowed me to gain so very much more.

I can't say I have the answers.  I can't say I'm ready to run heedlessly up ahead into whatever may be waiting.  No, I can't rush the process or what any of us are facing.  It's one day at a time.  That day's struggles.  That day's blessings.  That day of whatever we see as the fog is lifting.  And to those for whom the fog has suddenly dropped, the opportunity to perhaps be a hand to remind them they're not alone, a reminder that eventually they will begin to see their way through it.  That sometimes, at the beginning, all you can do is simply hold on... and when you feel your grip weakening, you can let someone else reach out and take hold of you.

Contentment and Melancholy

It has come to my attention that contentment is in perspective, in seeing what is actually happening, in not being discouraged because the entire picture is not visible right now.

When we first moved to Utah, there was a heavy fog that shrouded the mountains.  For the first few days, we could not see them there at all.  It would have been easy to say the mountains were not there, except for the slope of the road near our house and knowing that we lived in a valley in the Wasatch Mountains.

When the Mormon missionaries greeted us, their bikes emerged suddenly from the very dense fog.  And when they rode away again, they quickly disappeared from sight.

Fog is strange like that, changing our perception of distance as life is happening.

I remember waiting at a bus stop in elementary school, our neighborhood shrouded in a very dense fog.  This, combined with the early morning hour, transformed our everyday corner into a magical wonderland.  Students vanished as they stepped away to venture into the wild unknowns of the distant next stop.  People emerged from the clouds as if from nowhere.

Perhaps transitions have something in common with this murkiness. 

I, personally, have been feeling recently as if I am coming out of a fog, but strangely enough, it takes the emotions time to catch up from their previous state.  It's as if the emotions are still clinging to what could be seen amidst the fog.  Meanwhile, little by little, mountain peaks are emerging as the cloud cover weakens.  The outline of the street is once more becoming clear.  And with it comes the realization that life is not the way I thought it once was. 

For within the fog, I had one way of seeing...but as the sun emerges, I begin to see another.

Only this time it's as if I left one place where the sun shone, drove though a dense fog, and am now driving into a landscape entirely new.  And I won't know what the landscape contains until it comes fully into view.  As it is now, it is still hidden, though bits and pieces here and there give promise of more on the horizon.

The struggle comes in the believing there is more still yet to come.  The struggle comes in refusing to believe what can be seen in the fog is all there ever will be. 

The fog can cover so much.  It can cover a chain of giant, snow-capped mountains.

Transitions can be tricky because so much, at first, is hidden from view.  I used to think that, as an adult, life would follow a particular plan.  That, like a flower-lined path, it would go straight forward to the horizon.  No surprises.  No unexpected turns.  But instead it's more like the fog-covered bus stop when I was small.  The mystery gives a magical excitement to the future, but at the same time, it hides so much of what is coming from view.  People appear to disappear when, really, they are only walking to the next corner.  We catch up with them again when the bus reaches that stop.  We don't know other people are entering our lives until suddenly, with no warning, they emerge several yards in front of us, as if from nowhere, coming towards us from the fog.

So in looking at today, I can see what is revealed for now, but can never claim I know the entire picture.

Perhaps this is part of learning contentment and trusting the future.