My mom and I drove down to the farm today. We talked about old houses with wrap around porches. We stopped at Bakerman's Bakery and bought fresh cookies. We hugged a few cousins and aunts. We drove through the winding roads and talked about farms with my Dad. We sat in my grandmother's living room and worked to make Asher smile. We walked around her dazzlingly green yard buzzing in the year of locust.
This afternoon, we booked tickets to fly out next Thursday. Seven thousand miles of flying. It was the last blow in the finality of this next season.
There is a part of me that doesn't want to leave. I have been so comfortable here, in this place where I make sense. Where no one stares at me while I walk through the grocery store. Where my children blend into the mass of other wild boys running through parks and playgrounds. It feels easier. I'm in my homeland.
But in the midst of packing these trunks for another three years in a foreign land, I've been thinking about Christ and how He left His homeland. Where He reigned and ruled in spectacular glory. Where every comfort was His. A sacrifice so great my understanding can't even comprehend it. And He identifies with me even in this weakness. This small sacrifice. And His promises for me are full in this obedience.
We will feast in the house of Zion
We will sing with our hearts restored
He has done great things, we will say together
We will feast and weep no more