In college, I used to take these long hikes into the hills behind my house. Whenever I had some time in between class, or after dinner (let's be real, I wasn't rushing to get to my homework any time soon), I'd pack up a water bottle and a journal and set out. For hours on end, you'd find me perched on a rock, a log, or up in a tree, staring out over Berkeley and its surrounding cities and ocean.
Berkeley, Oakland, and San Francisco at night.
There was something driving me up those hills, some deep stirring. I felt half-mad at times, relentlessly hiking up to look-out points in the pouring rain. What was I looking for? What did I think I'd find at the top?
I longed for adventure; I thought nature was holding out some wild secret to me.
The Father reminded me of these hikes yesterday. I don't take them anymore, I no longer suffer from an overwhelming urge to rush off into romanticized isolation. While I am traveling around the world, I am not a nomad. What happened to me?
Your wandering heart has found its home.
My home is in the Father's heart. It is with the One who will never leave me, never forsake me. It is with my God who pursued me despite my fleeing. I am home. Permanently home.
So this is the invitation I carry each night my team and I go out into the bars in the red light district:
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