ON GOING HOME

(and the kindness of strangers)

 

 

There’s a Miranda Lambert song that brings a tear to my eye every time I hear it. (Part of the reason may be that my daughter sang this song at a Country Music open mic event, and I loved hearing her sing it.  A dream of mine is that my children will record something together some day.  But I digress…)

The song is “The House That Built Me”, and it’s a touching song about returning to the home of one’s childhood to try and regain a sense of self.  Some of the lyrics are “I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing.  Out here it’s like I’m someone else; I thought that maybe I could find myself….”  Who hasn’t had that feeling of being so far from where we started that we think maybe we’ve lost our way?  And there seems to be a deep longing in everyone to discover their roots, to know who they are and what made them that way.  Look at the success of companies like Ancestry.com or 23andme, where you can pay a fee and find out all about your “family of origin”.

What is it that drives this desire?  I think I might understand that need in the case of someone who’s adopted, who may not know what their heritage is.  They don’t have the benefit of family photos or possibly a grandparent to fill them in on the traditions and traits that may have been passed down. I work with children who have been placed in foster care, who have been removed from their birth families for one reason or another.  A large part of what I do with them is to create a “life book”- a book that traces their journey, with a goal of honoring their past even though they may not be able to return to that family.  It gives these children a sense of belonging to look at pictures or recall traditions and hopefully allays some of the fears and insecurities of an unknown future.  This is an intentional process, well thought-out by “experts” who have spent years working with children in these situations.

But what about those of us who can look at a family photo album and clearly see where we got our nose or our eyes?  What about those of us who grew up with a large extended family of aunts and uncles and cousins who regularly gathered for Sunday dinners and shared stories?  What is it that makes us want to go “home” again?

 

I recently took a ride to the community where my childhood home was located.  Not the home I lived in from birth, but one which was a large part of my growing up years.  The community is now gated, and no one is granted access without the permission of a property owner and the issuance of a temporary gate card.  I explained to the woman in the office that I had lived here 50 years ago, when the community was just being built; that my father was one of those original builders (as if that would gain me special access).  As I was making my plea, one of the current residents overheard me, and offered me access by way of a visitor’s pass.  Perhaps she was just being kind, or maybe she, too, understood that need we all share to go back home.

As I drove through that community I found that I didn’t need to make use of the map they provided at the office; it was as if I had just been there, and I easily recognized street names which took me directly to our old house.  As I approached the house, which sat at the top of a hill I remember as much higher, my first reaction was sadness at how it had aged.  My pre-teen recollections of this house were ones of grandeur-with two fireplaces, a sauna, a jalousied deck that wrapped around two sides of the house.  The deck was still there but was certainly showing its age.  I toyed with the idea of pulling a Miranda Lambert and walking up to the house and knocking on the door, asking only for a peek inside.  But common sense got the better of me.  Besides, what if I saw inside and was terribly disappointed at what had happened to the house, this home that my father built?  Weren’t the memories forged in that home by me and my siblings more valuable than its current physical condition?  I remember lining up for a daily dose of cod liver oil during the harsh Pennsylvania winters; enduring early morning swim lessons on the beach during the summer, mainly because the lifeguards were cute; and my brother still bears a scar on his thumb from going through a door on that once-impressive porch.

As I contemplate the reasons this desire to “find myself” continues to surface, I think about my children.  Will it matter that they don’t have one special childhood “home” to visit; one where they can see the marks I put on the wall as they grew or wander in the yard where they played?  I think of my daughter Sarah, only 4 ½ when her birth father died, and of my older son, Daniel, who wasn’t even born yet- do they struggle with that constant desire to find where they started from, to heal a brokenness inside?

And what about me?  Where does this longing come from, this desire to go back, as if returning would somehow ground me, let me start over?  I have been at this “wandering” long enough to realize, when I stop over-thinking and return to what I believe is true, that “home” is not a physical place, a house or a town that made me who I am.  One of the Dictionary.com definitions of home is “the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered”. As corny as it sounds, home really is “where the heart is”.

I think, for me, when I start to look to go back where I started and maybe get a “do over”, it’s because I’ve lost sight of where I’m headed, of my real purpose for being here.  When I am resting in the promises of scripture, such as being “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Ps. 139:14), I don’t question my physical struggles or limitations.  When I can get assurance from promises such as is found in Psalm 107:9, that “He satisfies the longing soul, and fills the hungry soul with goodness”, I don’t need to look to things or places to make me feel worthwhile or whole.

I am grateful to the kindness of that stranger who allowed me a trip down memory lane, a glimpse into my childhood memories, if only because it put into perspective what “home” is really all about.  I hope that my children will always feel they have a home to come back to, no matter where it may be physically. I have tried to provide that security in a sometimes tumultuous world.   But more importantly I pray, for my children and for myself and for any other “wanderers” out there, that “being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus”.

“That’s plain enough, isn’t it? You’re no longer wandering exiles. This kingdom of faith is now your home country. You’re no longer strangers or outsiders. You belong here, with as much right to the name Christian as anyone. God is building a home. He’s using us all—irrespective of how we got here—in what he is building. He used the apostles and prophets for the foundation. Now he’s using you, fitting you in brick by brick, stone by stone, with Christ Jesus as the cornerstone that holds all the parts together. We see it taking shape day after day—a holy temple built by God, all of us built into it, a temple in which God is quite at home.” (Eph 2:19-22, The Message)