It is blue dawn now, and a layer of ice glistens from atop
the deck railing, wispy fog streaking the landscape like pulled-apart cotton
balls. Quiet settles out there and in
here, and I lay my arm in a drizzle of pancake syrup and pronounce it good. After all, this is home.
So that seems to be my word, this year, having never done
the word-for-a-year trend before, but heavy on my heart this January that life,
this go 'round, needs a bit of definition, some pronouncement upon it for the
next few hundred days. I asked Him for a
word, to settle something into my heart, and he gave me one.
Home.
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And yet, I fought it.
It wasn't very profound. Shouldn't
this be the year of Giving or of Grace or Faith? The year of Prayer or Simplify or Grow or Fly?
I wanted to Dream, to Create, to experience the depth of Peace this year.
You can, He said.
At Home.
So even as my friends erase my address book entry for the 21st
time in 15 years, I settle into a season of home. Of learning that of all the things I strive to
be, the who I am at home is the who I was most created to be.
And while this sounds so warm and fuzzy, it's more of a
difficult concept for me than for most, I suspect. I am rather domestically disabled, at times,
but heap upon the expectation that my home be perfect…warm and inviting and
filled with creativity and love and delicately hung window treatments that
perfectly frame the world beyond. The
world where I can be somebody and I
want to make a difference for all those people out there, in the world, and my
sights can grow long and distant and far too grand, sometimes, with the idea
that if I could only be good and perfect, I might earn peace and grace.
But I am somebody already, nearly everything to a few little
hearts and a big one here and there are walls that contain all I really need to
do or be in this wide world, and it starts, I know, right here, at home.
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