I watch the stars from my window sill
The whole world is moving and I’m standing still…
and the world spins madly on.

the weepies-

October 4, 2009

My mind pictures Charlotte in the heat of summer.  Green grass and shade giving trees, just as I left it.  I pressed pause and walked away.

Babies celebrated, engagements bestowed, moves away, leaves dropped.

People on pause do not pick up and move away while I’m gone.  Wait.  They do.

I realised these as I walked under Cambridge’s glorious Autumn canopy.  There is blessedness in enjoying a foreign city.  An autumn I may never experience again.  But there is a season I’m missing.  A season with joy and sorrow, hellos and goodbyes.  There are people I miss.  The ocean feels too big some days.

Even though I return in the season of winter, the epitome of death, life remains.  In friendships, in delayed celebrations, in tears finally shared.  Though things, trees, and people may look different, I will treasure them more fondly after walking in longing.


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i’ve returned to charlotte, with stops in south carolina and georgia.  all places i’ve at one time called ‘home’.  i was ready to return, and overall sigh a contented exhale of joy, peace and contentment to be here (and there).  though i’m constantly reminded through moments of sadness, loneliness, awkwardness, insecurity, exhaustion, frustration that none of these places are truly my home…

this great poem says it much better than i.

Travel Advisory

Remind yourself, when you wake to a strangeness
of foreign lights through blowing trees
out the window of yet another hotel,
that home is only where you pretend your from.
What’s familiar sends you packing,
watching for “some lost place called home.”
You’re from wherever you go.

Don’t admit what you’re looking for.
If you say to a baker in Bremen, to a barmaid
in Provence, “Back home we think of you here
as having deeper lives,” they’ll shrug you wrong
and won’t respond. And then you’ll know:
they’re strangers too. Broken and wrinkled
stones and skin, brush strokes and chords,
old streets and saints you’ve read about,
flute-notes in the laughter of foreign children,
the nip of the local market cheese–
there’s a life we almost knew once.
Watch. Just let it in.

The return ticket will take you only
to the town where you packed to get on the plane.
It never missed you. You’ll notice
alien goods in your kitchen, wind in a wall,
losses in the middle drawer of your desk.
Even there, the strange is the cup of communion
you drink; that dim outlandish civitas dei
you’re a citizen of never was a place.
Remember not to feel too much at home.

by Rod Jellema

i had the priviledge of returning to l’abri for my final three days in the UK…

i realized i’ll never find words to adequately describe…

these images tell parts of the story of the place that brought me to tears, joy, uncertainty, insecurity, laughter and peace.

images, rather than my feeble words, leave room for God to fill in the blanks, the spaces, with exactly what you need to know of Him and how He met me there…