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Last week, I was at a gathering where a woman from Ecuador shared about how the thing she missed about her home was the food. That she can’t find food here that tastes like home.
I’ve been contemplating “home” a lot lately, as our family will be moving overseas as missionaries, working with refugees in northern France. We’re experiencing theoretically a lot of lasts in the next month or so. It’s exciting, but it brings with it a lot of sentimentality.
Just a few days ago, in Calais, refugees were evicted from their temporary homes and started the process of being registered and relocated to over two hundred locations across France. They’ve already been displaced from their homelands, and now they are experiencing loss and hopelessness yet again. Our hearts ache for the pain that these thousands of people will be enduring.
Also, in our family right now we have one family member that doesn’t feel like we’re his “home.” What means “home” to us is scary and unfamiliar.
But we open our arms. And we breathe grace.
Home isn’t so much our physical location as it is the methods and movements of our daily lives. The place to be vulnerable, protected from the hurts in the world. A place of refuge.
It’s the flavors, the sounds, the scents. It’s lighting candles at dinner time.
It’s the hobbies and laughter. And the tears shed within the walls of protection.
Here’s a bit of an afghan I’m whipping up for our daughter. She loves girly colors, and it’s been challenging for me to embrace that.
To me, home means a place for my books and a cup of tea with a cozy blanket. Or sitting
What is something that means “home” to you?