HOME

Sitting in the Ubon airport at Gate 4, waiting on a flight to Bangkok, then to Phnom Penh, I will be home in approximately 30 hours.

HOME . . . a term of comfort, stability. Yet "home is where the heart is," so the cliche' goes.

And I've just left a huge piece of my heart in Thailand. And earlier in Cambodia. And back in August, in France.

My heart home is torn apart and scattered for Christ's sake all over the world.

Confirming once again that my real HOME is with Jesus. Through His Spirit, He is my Home and I am His Home. Someday I'll live in His physical presence.

For now, 'til I see Him face-to-face, I invite Him to be thoroughly at home in my heart, wherever my feet may go . . . . near or far.

As I grieve, I breathe a prayer . . .

You, oh Lord, are my forever Home! Thank You for never leaving me nor forsaking me. For us, there are no sad goodbyes. We belong to each other. Forever! May all our family be a part of Your eternal family. Encourage my daughters as they pick up with loving their husbands and children, home schooling, ministering to others, and relating to You. Strengthen my sons-in-law. Infuse them with Your power and wisdom. Guard the hearts and minds of the little ones. 

In my mind's eye, I see one grandson along for the ride to the airport. It is a sober time. Even for a four year old.

What will you do when you get home, Grandma? How will you cry? What does the bunk bed look like in the red room? 

I explain my tears, my journaling, my prep for him to come see us, our service for God on our side of the world.

A lot for a four year old to digest.

My son-in-law pulls up to the airport curb. We pile out with our luggage, say our goodbyes as Grandpa sweeps his little grandson into his arms. Swallowing back tears, we lumber through the terminal doors. It is over.

Just like that. It always seems so abrupt, no matter what hugs, words, prayers have come before.

At some point, and I suspect sooner than what my young grandson expected, it was over.

For now.

I leave him at four and pick up again at age six, most likely. Losing those bulks of time while they are growing is one of the hardest things about this missionary journey.

Do You miss Your children in a similar way, Abba? Until we join You, face-to-face? You who wept so freely while on earth? I suspect You do. You weep for us and with us. My longing for You will likely never quite match Your longing for me. 

We board the plane and before we know it we're piling into an airport tram in Bangkok, surrounded by Asians. An overwhelming thought accompanied by a touching feeling grips me: These are the people my daughter loves, and has loved since she was five. 

The thought, the feeling, brings me full circle in my perspective. I let my kids go so that more can know Jesus as their HOME.

And that, after all, is what truly matters.