|| Homesick is the room in our mind that hinges our heart to every doorway we’ve ever walked through and called our own. It is the thread that has woven its way from our past to our present and will find its way to our future to remind us, like a gentle pulsing, of all we have ever loved and left behind. ||
In this world, we have to cultivate gardens for our hearts to blossom and grow when the chaos of life has made our hearts a wasteland. We have to find places where our souls can mend in the broken places and be nurtured into wholeness again. Sometimes the adventure finds us and sometimes we have to find the adventure. And sometimes, our hearts and minds need only be still so we can soak and flourish in these gardens of life we discover.
I have left pieces of my heart out on these rocks. And I’ve reclaimed fragments of my heart that have been taken. I’ve cried my eyes out, sung my voice raw, cried out to God in anguish, contemplated life and death and everything in between. I’ve shared this sacred space with people I’ve loved, but it is still my own sacred garden.
Even when we don’t know what we are growing up and into, we have to learn to trust the soil in which we’ve been planted. We have to allow our spirits to be washed by the rain after a drought, even if we are slow to trust the water to sustain us.
Find these gardens for your heart. Find your sacred space. The stamina of your soul, longevity of your life, and wholeness of your heart depend on it.
Here is what I think: that everyone deserves someone who writes them love notes all throughout their favorite book and sends it to them to help fan the flame of Love back into their worn out heart.
A heart that has trouble believing the Love story is really for them anymore, since some people say it isn’t.
I think everyone deserves someone whose voice sounds like the smile of God as it whispers words of life and encouragement straight into their desert spirit.
I think everyone deserves someone who cries with them, laughs with them, and does not give up on them even when others do.
Everyone deserves someone who is faithful enough to the Still, Small Voice that they are able to see the very seed of Heaven hidden deep within a tattered and worn out soul.
I want this for every heart. I want to be this for others someday.
This dear friend and mentor of mine is Jesus to me in every conversation, love note, and surprise gift in the mail. She knows my journey in its entirety and loves, loves, loves like a candle that never stops burning – a light that never flickers or goes out.
And you will know them by their love…and the knowing will leave you changed.
This evening was for chasing sunsets (literally). There was a night not long ago when I clutched my guitar in solitude and was content to be in a city where no one knew my name.
Since then, the earth has spun around a time and a half and now I am surrounded by people who have journeyed through the most vulnerable and messy season of my life and continue to walk with me with such care and intentionality. Our lives are meaningless without connection. Community feeds something in our soul that nothing else ever will.
My heart always misses people that I can’t be with, and sometimes the ache feels more unbearable than other times. We rise and we fall. We grieve and we celebrate. It is the never ending circle of life. Maybe that is why the sunset seems so magical tonight.
Because at the end of the day, no matter how many clouds have tried to block its path or mask its radiance, the sun always finds its way across the eastern sky to make its slow descent behind the mountains. Every day, the sun rises; and every night, it gives the sky over to the moon.
Oh that I might learn when to rise and when to fade into the background. Oh that I might be like the setting sun – who fights through the clouds without losing its path, all to find the way back home.
And sometimes, the heart misses everything at once. Every person we’ve ever loved or longed for. Every place we’ve ever called home. And the dull throb of the longing, the missing, the grieving feels a lot like a long winter: the sun hesitates to enter the gloom, the sky forbids to turn blue, the wind has a biting, unforgiving sting.
And “I miss you” is the clearest thought in a sea of winter’s fog.
What is broken will never be unbroken again. What is done cannot be undone. And winter lingers. Replaying and reminding us of all that is fixed – all we cannot hope to change.
We long to return to what was before and that longing seeps through the layers of our soul like winter’s icy chill. And we must wait in the bleak winter. Til spring rescues the sky from the grey and restores life to the places where death has made its home.