Friday, April 12, 2013

"Five-Minute" (much longer) Friday: Here

Someone once said, "Home is where the heart is," and now it hangs as a canvas painting on our wall by the door.  Since first hearing that saying, I've learned what it means through season after season of transition and changing locations, that home is a Who and not a Where.  But I look at that canvas up on my wall now and my heart tells me it's a restless wanderer. 

I haven't the faintest idea where home is because I can't seem to locate my heart.

This place we've lived in our first year of marriage, at different points, has felt more like home than any other in a long while.  It's been, at times, a much needed refuge.  But now, as it's in the beginning stages of disassembly, as boxes lay scattered and pictures are stripped from the walls, I see it through different eyes.  This place is a cave of sadness, a witness to a thousand private deaths grieved this past year, from which I peer out at the mountains and lake and feel oddly detached from the sun.   Oddly detached from my self.  Within these walls, dreams were sown and watered and neglected, have shot up fragile from the earth and wilted fragile in our hands. 

I moved in with hopes for memories of dancing salsa on our hardwood floors, cooking together in the kitchen, sharing meals at our table, mornings tangled up in bed.  I got a handful of some of these. 

I have more memories of shutting myself in the bathroom or slumped on the kitchen floor alone, a fountain of tears erupting that won't run dry. 

And so, I wish to flee this cave I once called home.  

. . . . . . . . . . . .

There's a longing for home, a taste of it in the presence of the ones I love, a promise of it in the presence of the One who is love.  Yet it's always a flicker, a faded photograph, a memory tucked away.  And maybe there is no need to locate my heart, as much as to locate home in my heart, if I could find a way to access this place, to abide in the peace of belonging to a home that is not flesh and blood and physical address or lover's arms, but here - in Christ, eternal.   

Here, at the epicenter of all this raw pain and death and breaking, is where I finally come to know - really know - that home is Now and Not Yet.  

That home is grace and home is all-consuming fire. 

Home is where I lay my soul to rest each night no matter my address. 

Home is where the slumped ones will rise again, 
     where bitter waters flow into the river of life, 
          and everything that touches the water of this river will live

Home is here, where bruised and wilted dreams raise up their heads and stories that seem dead rise from a pile of smoldering ash to tell a more beautiful story.

Here, my soul.  It's right here, all along.

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*Linking up with Lisa-Jo and the Five-Minute Friday community of writers, with this confession: I rarely stick to the five minute rule, because sometimes, I just have so much more inside that needs time to work itself out.  But I love the prompts and the community I have found here.  The prompt this week was "Here," and as you can see, it was a doozy for me.  In case you're wondering, I didn't plan on this coming out, but it did.  And so I try to be brave with what comes to me - "transparency with a purpose" - for I believe this brings healing and hope and freedom, even though I'm shaking in my skin.  So, thank you for being here.  Your presence means a great deal to me.

17 comments:

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    1. Thank you... I know it's a sad story, but what surprised me most is that it is hopeful - and I'm grateful for that. Peace to you.

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  2. holding this in my heart. holding you there.

    always, your words are so evocative. thank you for sharing the depths.

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    1. As always, thank you, my friend - for the holding, for your 'presence' here.

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  3. Sounds like a really hard year! Beautifully written, though--hopefully cathartic.

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    1. Thank you. You know, it was so much more than cathartic. It was a revelation of hope, which was why I could write it. I appreciate your visit and taking the time to comment here.

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  4. How I wish we could meet before I move. It seems to me we deal with many of the same "story lines"
    Here is to finding home

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    1. Me, too, Karmen! Amen, I'll toast to that. To finding home. Grace and peace to you, in his arms, dear friend.

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  5. Oh, I know the pain you describe here too well. I know what that cold kitchen floor feels like. I also know that transparency is hard, it's so hard, but it's such a blessing to those who read your words. While I'm sorry your marriage is going through a tough season, I'm hopeful that it is just.a.season. Thank you for stopping by my blog and for your beautiful words there. I love all the things we had in common this week. On a lighter note, do you really love goats? Because I do too and we've had many goats here on our farm. They are better than dogs, really. So funny that we have that in common as well! :-)

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    1. Amber, what a gift this morning, to see you here and read your kind words. Thank you for understanding. You're right, transparency is so, so hard, and I don't always know if it's a blessing, but I hope and pray that it is. On that lighter note, YES! I do love goats, for real. In fact, Ricardo and I had a large number of engagement photos taken at a goat rescue last year :-) I hope, someday, to have some goats. I didn't know you live on a farm... wow. Crazy to find others with unexpected things in common. Love it.

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  6. Amber, this is beautiful. And I agree that transparency is incredibly difficult but such a blessing.

    Thank you for sharing a peek into your story.

    Thanks even more for ending this post with HOPE, what we all really need! :)

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    1. Jen, your words touch me. Thank you, so much, for letting me know how this sat with you. I am so grateful for the hope that rose as I finished writing this, so happy to pass it along.

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  7. I can follow your train of heart. As if being led through a valley with your eyes closed, feeling, touching everything that surrounds you. In this sensory state of being you feel warmth although eyes still closed. Your skin starts to tingle as your prepare for your eyes to be opened again. Your brain starts to shift from the darkness around, to the light that lies within. The hopes and aspirations once stifled by circumstance, now await you to reopen those boxes.

    I am excited to continue witnessing your progress. And await the day when you no longer just feel the warmth, but blind folds off and see the beauty in being exactly where God wants you :)

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    1. Thank you, Matthew... what beautiful imagery. You bless me.

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  8. Been holding you close, dear one. This was such beautiful truth-telling and yes the hope. This line sums much of it up for me: "Home is where the slumped ones will rise again, where bitter waters flow into the river of life, and everything that touches the water of this river will live." Yes, friend, this living water is coursing through your veins, it is making dried up places alive again. I am praying for good new beginnings. For hope to continue its rising. For you to know in your deepest places how dearly loved you are -- that you are home regardless of address. I love you.

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    1. "This living water is coursing through your veins, it is making dried up places alive again." Yes. Yes, yes, yes. I'm beginning to feel it rise... and how beautiful that is. Thank you for speaking this back to me.

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