Home

My return flight landed minutes before 10 PM on Sunday night.
We just finished stuffing our minivan with everything we've ever owned so that we can leave at 3 tomorrow morning (or is that tonight?) to head back to Atlanta for a wedding.

The last two days have been a blur of errands and laundry, and I have very little brain space that isn't occupied with a list or a nagging fear of forgotten items. And my two little shadows have been sewn back on, which is such a wonderful blessing and an added dimension of crazy.

I posted a picture on Instagram of my cuties in the cart at Costco, and a couple friends made sweet comments about me being "home."

There are so many places that feel like valid contenders for the title of "home."
Denver.
Waco.
Philly.
Atlanta.
Houston.

Opening the door to my dingy, undecorated apartment didn't really feel like coming home. But I'm not sure any place would.

I am still a transplant. My deep, strong Atlanta roots still ache from being largely severed, and my roots here (while life-giving and new) are understandably underdeveloped. 

In a rare solitary drive tonight, I listened to the song "Lift Your Head Weary Sinner" (David Crowder) over and over and over. This lyric arrested me:

If you're lost and wandering
Come stumbling in like a prodigal child

On one level, the music makes me feel like my vagabond heart is swampy and gritty and romantic in the most earthy way.
More importantly, it's a reminder that "home" is where my Father's doors swing wide for me.



(Here is a video with the song ... forgive the cheesy background picture):