“I’m not sure if people know what ‘home’ is anymore,” a fellow church member expressed during a conversation from earlier this year.

This comment struck a cord with many as we nodded and contemplated the meaning of home. As the Christmas season is now upon us, I can't help but consider home once again.

Many consider the two to go hand-in-hand this time of year – home and Christmas. Some wait to go home. Others work on creating a home, and more still do not have safe homes at all.

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This past weekend, I hosted an open mic/art show at the homestead.  It was an evening the had me enthralled and I didn't want it to end.  A poet, a sculptor, a singer and a spoken word performer, amongst a few more writers and creative geniuses, graced us with their offerings.  It was such a sacred time that ushered summer in with profound, but gentle truth.  I am almost at the end of making a big transition that I announced last week. Thank you to everyone for your support and encouragement in this season.  It has meant so much to me and my husband. 

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I love receiving letters about the book, comments on the blog, and interacting with audiences at different events.  Since the book has come out a funny thing has happened.  I’ve been able to rest into the message as a vocational stamp on my life as well as laugh and cry with other perfectionists trying to find recovery from the madness.  However, there is another introspective anomaly that happens when I connect with others too.

When the book comes up and people have not heard about it, I explain the topic - in brief - if they ask.  They seem interested and nod as if pondering something much deeper.  I blanket the answer as this is “My journey - my story” of how I made peace with the feeling of not being good enough; that I was driven by everyone's expectations of acting and being and doing my life in a certain way.  In no way, shape or form am I trying to project my journey onto theirs (or sell the book, but that's always a perk).

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I get married in twenty-one days. Somehow that sounds shorter than three weeks. And somehow I feel exceptionally ready, while exceptionally naïve to what ready really means.

This morning woke to a prayer time that sought “Home.” What is it? Where is it? Where I am in it? And most importantly, I suppose, Whose am I in the midst of Home?

This is far from the first time such a search has sought my attentions. Often its been quite practically speaking, like when I moved away to college, or overseas, or across the country, or back across the across the country. While other times the search has been more abstract, like this morning. As sunlit beams danced around my bed, my solo existence, and God, sat still.

This has been my home, Father, but in twenty-one days, it will be no longer. The views will change. Different windows, different sounds, different smells… My single existence here will be no more.

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When Tiny Tim (as played by Kermit the Frog) begins to sing at the end of the Muppets' version of A Christmas Carol, I have to be honest and just admit that I cry.

"God bless us all," he sings, "... who gather here, the loving family we hold dear. No place on earth compares with home and every path will lead us back from where we roam."

That Kermit. He wrecks me!

Having moved multiple times in and between six countries and three continents, I am an accidental expert in the emotional travails of separation and loss, boxes and crates, dismantling home and recreating it once again. The drama of moving has it's own set of pains and joys, my considerable experience of which are a byproduct of the adventures I've found.

Now, there is a certain range of hills that run along the southern border of Kenya named, quite simply, Loita. (That's "loi" as in loiter, not lo-ee-tah.) Byron and I lived there for 10 years and, given that I've never remained in any other spot for that long, I often wonder if anywhere will ever feel like home the way Loita did... and does.

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Certain perks come with being in a new city and not knowing folks, like waking to an agenda-less weekend morning. If I made it to the farmers market, or a dusty aisle of the used bookstore, great, but as I departed my front step, I was determined to let twenty bucks and the wind be my compass, not a prescribed endpoint.

Forsyth Park is a stones throw from my apartment, and shares its south side with an eclectic coffee shop and ever-lively scene. I strolled that way, enjoying a cookie, cup of tea and loose read of the NY Times, before returning to the park. Benches are spread throughout, and given that temperatures were already blazing, it was a shaded, less noticeable one that drew me.

“Mind if I share your bench?”
“Not at all, just people watching. Name’s Laverne,” he said with an outstretched arm.
“Abbie. Nice to meet you.”

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THERE is a video at the bottom of this post that YOU HAVE TO WATCH. This post is a good read too!!

Today is Ash Wednesday and it's been a great day so far. It's been a full day of reflection, discussion and conversation about this mysterious God that I've put my life towards (ash on head and all!). It started by going to Ash Wednesday Mass at my dear friends Parish called Mt. Carmel in Tempe. The homily was confronting. The priest talked about how we are so afraid to be alone. He called us 'cell phone junkies' and called us out on the reality of how desperately afraid our culture is of being alone, even those of us in Christ. We don't know how, we're scared to, we're resistant to, we're afraid of and we fill our lives with so many things that keep us connected to people so that we won't have to be alone. Introvert or Extrovert we all have 'things' that we do that keep even our minds occupied. I was confronted by the Holy Spirit in time of reflection, during church this morning, to prioritize more time to just soak in His presence and commune with Jesus. Is this just me or are you with me on this one?

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