I used to be convinced that a home was a place.
A four walled building with a roof where people resided.
And surely, it is. But it’s also so much more than that.
My home used to be the place where my family lived together. We would gather for the usual 6:30pm dinner. We would eat pizza on Fridays and clean the house on Saturdays. And it was good, don’t get me wrong. But eventually, my house stopped being my home.
A couple years ago, my mom told me she was selling my childhood house, the one place I remember being “home”. And, to be completely honest, I felt devastated when I found out.
I used to think that 9010 Woodlake Drive was my only home. But that wasn’t the truth.
I’ve come to learn that home isn’t just one single place.
Home is a bunch of people and thousands of places that are spread out across state lines and are oceans, continents and borders apart.
The people and the places that bring you the most comfort and show you the most love.
Home has looked a heck of a lot different the past eleven months.
It has taken place in the form of many places.
In the Colombian mountains. In the capital of Ecuador. Cusco, Peru. The beautiful island of Bali. During a typhoon in the Philippines. On the beach of Vietnam. In the villages of Cambodia. Together with my people and my mom in Thailand. In a little village in Ukraine. Small town, Moldova. The Camino de Santiago. And finally, Mijas, Spain.
In every place we went, we always referred to where we stayed as “home”. And I think that’s a really beautiful thing.
That in eleven different countries, we considered each and every one home.
Maybe more importantly, home has taken place in the form of people.
The 18 that have surrounded me constantly for the past eleven months.
The 5 that make up our leadership team, who come out to the field every couple of months, which honestly never seems like enough time.
The hosts we’ve had. The people we’ve met. The lives we got to intercede for.
I could probably make a list about a hundred people long all who have felt like a lil slice of home to me.
But home is also in the States.
Home is my mom. My dad. My sister. My sweet family and friends.
My people who haven’t stopped cheering me on since before this journey started, and who won’t stop cheering me on just because this journey is ending.
A big question I keep getting asked is if I’m ready to come “home”.
The easy answer is yes. And the complicated answer is no.
Yes because I can’t wait to squeeze my sister. To be back with my people.
To wake up to my mom sitting on the couch, waiting for me.
To visit my people, who live all across the country.
To bring my Jesus back to the States.
To let my faith carry me, instead of trying to provide everything for myself.
To show people who my Jesus really created me to be.
And no.
Because this life I have been living is beautiful.
This life is glorious, even on the worst and hardest days.
The people I wake up next to are home to me. They know me. The me, who has been shaped and molded by a Jesus who cares so deeply for me.
They called out the good in me, especially when I wanted to quit.
The countries we’ve been to, and the things we’ve experienced have been so good and so hard.
I know I’m not ready for it to end, because I have cried at least five times in the process of writing of this. I know that I’m ready for it to end, because I have cried at least five more times thinking about going back to the States.
I am confident that the Lord calls us to things for seasons at a time.
I can’t explain to you how bittersweet the ending of this season is.
But, how we end a season is exactly how we begin the next.
And I want to walk in with tears in my eyes, and my hands open wide for the Lord to do His work.
And today, as we pack our bags and leave Spain, getting on an airplane to fly back to the States, I have no stinkin’ clue what comes next.
But I can rest assured that the homes I’ve found over the past eleven months will always be home for me.
And the home I’m coming to Is waiting for me too.
And that’s good enough for now.
All my love,
Car
