Fly Away Home

September 17th, 2016

This morning I awoke to one of my greatest insecurities: I was going home.

You know, home. 

Back to our nineteen-fifties house in the land of crystal blue lakes, mountain sightings by every turn, thicket in your backyard, and an accompanied coolness in every season; Beautiful British Columbia. 

I was going back to the house where my Momma taught me how to put my jam-making skills into money-making opportunities, where my Dad taught me how to set a volleyball. Where I've inhabited three out of three available bedrooms (designated for the children) because it seems that each season of my life calls for a different space. 

Back to the only home I have ever known.

One would never suspect five people as large as us could survive in our small house; and yet, survive we do. It's also--somewhat thanks to its smallness-- the house where a mechanical dishwasher is prayed for. And even though we've lived there for over seven years, Mom still thinks that the living dishwashers are more suitable; 

us, the kids.

It's a place where garden boxes were built to add a new sense of health and wholeness, or on some days, even Holiness to one's routine. It's where the youngest boy creates his masterpieces both inside and outside because he needs complicated machines to get the job done now. It's where, sadly, the fireplace is latched closed due to one too many squirrels making it down the tunnel into our living room, once scaring Grandma into a frenzy. It's the place where three out of five tend towards Great Grandma's piano, leading the whole house-- whether we want to or not (poor insulation)-- in splendid chorus. 

It's a lovely home.

It's always been lovely, yet I've only recently learned to love it in all of it's compacted, never-enough-storage, and incredibly non-sound proofed qualities, because it's the place where redemption lives and breathes.

It's the place where during mid-October, everyone should stop by. Candles act as part of our light source due to the limited electricity running through the houses' dividers. And the lamps--however many you'd prefer to turn on-- magnify the warm hues by our antique trinkets, wall colour, and brown leather couches. Fake decor flowers strangle each lamp post, splashing the main floor in every burnt orange, mustard yellow, brown, red and salmon pink colour you'd ever want to see. And the coffee coasters? Well. They wait patiently for a steaming cup to make its way to its Only other company than it's initial- someone's grip. I can't say we get much use out of them. 

In the evenings you can smell cinnamon and peppermint from the diffuser at our front door then, two steps further, herbs and meat by whatever someone is making in the kitchen for dinner. And before you head downstairs, take a seat in the rocking-chair next to the love seat to see the Willow tree dance in the gelid wind, and hear pine cones drop to clutter the roof. 

It's my favorite season for our little home because of its disposition in the fall. Almost as if in response to the earth's nearing winter and dormancy It-- by its Own Essence-- chooses to Wake Up. In the dreadful spells of chilled rain (unable to offer anyone solace) our little house can't help but illuminate from the inside out; acting as a place of refuge that each person really needs at the end of the day.

It's like the cabin in the woods that one would want to see if they were caught in a winter's snowfall. Where through a cracked window one can smell stew brewing, a clink and clank of dishes being set on the table, and a soft tune of Christmas music echoing through the trees. 

You would see the smoke puffing out of the chimney knowing full well that the heat by the flames flickering inside would be a relief for your freezing hands. Similarly, the fire's blaze would illuminate through the fogged windows telling you that the house was more than comfortable, it was warm. And then you would notice the woman inside who sang along with the tune, and realize it was her voice you heard all along. 

In a sudden moment instincts would set in, And Courage (and perhaps a little bit of desperation) would cry for you to knock on the door! One could only hope a chair could be had for you, a bowl, some company. Warmth, perhaps.

In a blink, the door would swing open, arms wide to every shivering bit of you. Within moments you would be eased into a rocking chair near the fireplace. Your hands would soon encompass a cup of something hot, clothes replaced with something dry, and feet placed into a tub of steaming water. It would be there that you would calmly rock, defrosting from the winter's wicked bite, still listening to that soft tune. Flames too, would mesmerize your gaze as your head nodded; eyes rolling back to find rest.

Suddenly a bell would ring, forcing your mind to return. The woman would call out that dinner was served, and instantaneously foot steps would reverberate through the walls. And as you woke from what felt like hours of sleep, the woman would press her soft hand on your shoulder, find your grasp, and lead you to the spot prepared for you. Her beauty and kind smile would become bold to you under the dining room light. You would know, without question, 

this was a safe place.

Right there, in Your Very Own Spot, you would notice the stew in your bowl, the spoon next to it, and the snow falling out the window. And as the home-owners finally made it into their seats, you would breathe in the thyme and garlic, and notice the scent of redemption in the mix. 

Delicious.  

This, one could argue, was a home.  

***

Admittedly, our house has hardly been what we've wanted in recent years, but it's everything and more of what we need- what we would Ever need! The tight spaces and never-enough-cupboards for storage has allowed for closer connecting and less excess. So really, what more could we want? 

This is exactly what most people long for, isn't it? 

Still, 

on September 27th 2017, I awoke in my soon-to-be sister's room, thousands of miles and a whole country (really, a whole one) away from my homeland, haunted by the dissipating single-digit hours that remained before I would say goodbye to my love once again. 

Haunted by the reality of Having to Go home! 

It goes like this: Wake up. Fret the time. Ignore the time. Look at the time. Repeat. All of this until eventually, you've lifted your suitcase out of the trunk-- or lack thereof-- from the mini cooper and have (hopefully) a minute to say your goodbyes. (Because surely someone will yell at you to move your car out of the no-parking zone.) So the exchange is brief and lovely, full of gratitude and hope, sadness and pain, because-- and this is a miracle all in itself!-- the ring on your finger says that soon enough 

This Will Be No More. 

But for the time being, you have but one goal for that day: get on the flight; 

Fly Away Home... 

So you turn your back away from his presence, waiting for the Right Moment to take one more look. You only get one more look! 

And there he goes: Smiling at you from the driver's seat, blowing a kiss. On his way to class. 

Gone, again. 

With that, you pray for the same courage that told you to knock on the cabin's door the first time, because this time it isn't so simple. 

This time, someone waits for you in the whiteout just a few mountains behind. He waits patiently in his own cabin, similarly drawn to the fire's warmth and sweet sounding tunes. He sits comfortably at the table, very much anticipating your arrival. He knows that in just a short time, you will come. 

You will. 

Yes, this time, not so simple at all. 

***

It's a conundrum at best, this flying home ordeal. 

It's not so much the shape or color of our house that has it's grasp on me, of course, but what lives inside: My Family. By all means, they are the heartbeat. 

They, as I'm sure yours does too, indisputably make the house a home. 

And yet, 

what comes of it when you notice a second, disembodied heartbeat?

***

The cabin in the woods, you thought to yourself, would be a lovely home. Not only for the kindness bestowed at the door, but because the redemption smelled so good. So good, you waited until everyone dug into their meal of rich moose meat, vegetables and potatoes to memorize the scent. But the weather caught your eye a second time, the way it falls so beautifully, and yet, caused for such an uncomfortably cold experience just a mere hour ago. 

What was it like, a few mountains behind? Blistery? Calm? 

Freezing?

The commotion at the table drew you back anyhow. Little boy shared about his recent hunt with Father- the rack from the beast and all of it's impressiveness. How it surpassed the size of what most hunters seemed to be bringing back. A trophy kill for sure. The woman noted how kind it was for the moose to give its life, and how scrumptious the meat tasted from the concoction that had simmered for hours before our indulging. Then, as it seemed to have taken less than minutes to consume the food, the girl suggested a song around the piano; one we All know. 

The woman began with a delicate "D" chord, tinkering low and high in all variations, and the sweet sound might as well have floated from her vocal chords. You paused before joining, just to hear the beautiful noise. 

Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, 

Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made;

But instead of joining, as you thought you would do, you simply listened. And then the girl matched the woman's voice with an even more powerful harmony, convincing you of a match made in heaven. 

I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, 

Thy power throughout the universe displayed.

An angel, you guessed, could have sounded like that. 

Such sweet, sweet sounds rose past the ceiling all the way up to Heaven's gates. You were sure of it. You were sure too, that maybe, perhaps, this song could be heard from mountains away. 

Hoped, anyway. 

You knew for certain that he would've loved it. That he too would have wanted to sing along. 

There, in the heat of song and spirit-filled worship you ached for him. You tried picturing how his voice would match the other's, how his hand would be absorbing yours. Surely there was room for him here.

Why didn't he simply live closer? Around the bend?

***

I always long for a window seat when I leave him. 

That, or, in close second, one adjacent to the isle (for obvious reasons such as easy access to the bathroom). Either will do, but a seat near the window is where the sun can find me. 

And I know it wants to find me. 

Because when it does, my body consumes it like a sedative. I'm not sure if it's an ingredient of sunlight itself or a product all of its own, still, Peace saturates into my skin as I sit there; basking in the incandescent rays. Time seems to slow, and pain seems to numb. And all of This to which I am so grateful for, as quite truthfully, only God knows how parched I am for peace.

So Yes, it wants to find me. 

It's as if, when I'm finally found, everything becomes bearable again. Truly. It's then that my tears seem to finally dry, and I can enjoy how the sun has found other things, like the land below; how it glistens and twinkles, undeterred by the inconsequential affairs. 

I see ponds on farm properties; how they glow like gold in the midday heat. I’m blinded by the sun that shoots through an army of clouds. And (my favorite), when a plane re-routes (possibly staying en-route nevertheless) and teeters tactfully to one side, I see glorious rays that pass through the entire vessel, giving folks who couldn't see the sun just moments before with No Choice in the matter. 

It's in these things, whilst travelling in the opposite direction from who my heart longs for, to which I can divert my attention, admire, and get lost in. 

A sedating and divine diversion. 

***

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:

How great Thou art! How great Thou art!

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to thee:

How great Thou art! How great Thou art! 

The girl belted so loudly and stunningly, her harmony might as well have been the melody. All the while you boiled in bittersweet questions, wondering whether here was, in fact, home. 

Was it? 

Because soon enough you would make the trek. The one that you and him had looked forward to (and prayed for) for a long time now- all the way to his cabin in another wood. The roof he lay under would soon be yours, too. You would live miles away from the refuge that took you in, fed, clothed and nurtured you. 

This: the stew, song and spirit together would be no more until a visit was planned. A sacrifice, you knew, everything and more worth making. Of course it was. I mean, he would be the one that you would soon call, Husband. 

But you knew this all along, even from the moment you sipped your stew, so why did you believe that home would be here? 

When through the woods, and forest glades I wander 

And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. 

When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur

And hear the brook, and feel the gentle breeze

Glory, if it were to be heard, sounded like this. The family seemed to be wading in the spirit, fully soaked in its vigor. Not a single interruption could've pierced this veil of Holy noise. 

And while you too soaked in each note, each word, you marveled and accepted this newly discovered displacement. How each physical house-- the one you were in and the one you would eventually inhabit-- both should be, And Yet weren't, exclusively home. 

How could they be?

But they couldn't hear your thoughts, and sang as if everything were as it should be. 

And when I think, that God, His son not sparing;

Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in;

That on the cross, my burden gladly bearing,

He bled and died to take away my sin.

Meanwhile, you stewed in uncertainty. If home means, "to or at the place where one lives", or as often stated, "home is where the heart is", then both of these statements lacked invariably, you thought. Because how could one sensibly (or physically) slice their heart in two? 

It is Not So when you one day return (you promised the woman you would) to the cabin in the woods that kept you and fed you, that it will have lost it's essence or title of "home" merely because you left it. Nor is it So that that same cabin-- currently bursting at the seams with glorious song-- is even home, for evidently your heart awaits the nearing, very necessary take-off, so to speak. 

Each to their own means Sacrifice and Separation! 

Even more, to one of them is where you came from, and the other is where you would be headed. Neither reduces either of its former and newly coming marrow. One doesn't take precedence over the other, but rather both have Needed To Be and Will Always Be Home, you knew. 

But you also understood that one had to have a home- a whole one, at that. You know, a physical-intertwined-with-meaningful-kind. Something--Anything!-- tangible to the heart or hands. 

Because perhaps if it were not known to be had, the space you lay in would become an impossible sorrow. A place brimming with infinite questions, and eventually an environment incapable for rest. Where all sense of belonging would be but a thirst. An environment-- Ultimately-- Not Like a Home. And if it were Not understood to be had, one would Not have a home, 

and Everyone (Everyone!) Needs A Home. 

So you ask (again) in quiet desolation: 

Where is home?

Then, quietly, the candle's shadow danced on the walls. All eyes were closed; hands held out to accept whatever or whomever may come. The fire's crackle snapped with the piano during an instrumental interlude, and the room's temperature grew to a perfect, mollifying warmth. 

Softly, this time only, the girl opened her mouth to sing. And you heard what you couldn't fully conceive, yet knew to be true. 

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation 

And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart.

Then I shall bow, in humble adoration, 

And then proclaim: "My God how Great thou art!" 

For Home, you realized, wasn't here and wouldn't be there. Wouldn't be too soon or not soon enough. Wouldn't even be (wholly) an earthly residence. 

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee,

How Great Thou Art! How Great Thou Art!

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee

How Great Thou Art! How Great Thou Art!

Home would be entering heaven's gates, resting in the place perfectly prepared for you. Recognizing body, mind, and spirit, your first and foremost citizenship.  

Home is with Him. 

And if Home is with Him, then Home will follow you wherever you go. To the ends of the earth and then some. 

How Great Thou Art! How Great Thou Art!