Thinking of Home
Why We Long to be Together for the Holidays
The idea of home fills my mind this time of year. Though I live in Charlotte, North Carolina, whenever we drive to Pennsylvania to visit my other siblings and all the cousins and the grandparents, I always say, “We’re headed home for a couple of weeks.”
I don’t live there now, but it fills up this spot in my heart I call home.
Home. Is it defined by where you’re from or where you currently live? Is it the physical hall within a house, or the feet running through it? Is it the dining room table or the people eating at it? Is it your place of origin or your current residence?
In this transient world, we live displaced; we, the ragged-run travelers of the “move here to get it done” society. We “hang our hats” for the moment and call that place, that structure, that town, home – and then we’re off again to the next place for the next opportunity.
From a spiritual perspective, many like to say, “This world is not our home.” While others remind us of the sacredness of space and place.
This makes me wonder if the spiritual home we like to imagine is less about place and more about presence. Adam and Eve lived contented for who knows how long when they walked with God in the cool of the evenings.
Rebellion introduced alienation. And we all of us inherited the curse of Cain—the wanderer, longing to be back in God’s presence. Perhaps our true home is both the hallway and the feet running through it, accompanied by the presence of heaven. No dichotomy. Just a rounded encounter of life, here and now, enhanced by the Divine presence.
Home, then, is a kinship, and kinship is a language.
It is like poetic diction. Owen Barfield, a close friend of C.S. Lewis, said poetic diction is the selection and arrangement of words done in such a way that their meaning arouses the imagination. We may not always be able to explain why the words evoke our emotions, but we know its there. It’s almost as if the poem or story possesses a unique language.
So, when I say kinship is a language, what I really mean is that you and I associate specific characteristics to the relationships we cultivate in our lives. Love and grace and humour and fun function as the language of kinship.
But we also see those characteristics in “place” too: the room in which you place the Christmas tree, the fire pit outside—hot with winter fires, the cozy room where you watch your favourite Christmas movies. The creaky steps you walk down on Christmas morning.
So, we associate soul-ish characteristics with home as well as physical characteristics of place. Combined, they create an intoxicating context (contexere: a weaving together) from which beautiful memories emerge.
In my mind, then, when we refer to the idea of “home,” we are really hinting at the magic language of kinship. It’s the thing that causes us to stand back and reflect on the living poetry before us: a home buzzing with motion and emotion, love and discord, rest and stress; fires burning, lights twinkling, pillows billowing; snowy night walks, early morning shopping sprees, cookies in the kitchen, pancakes on the griddle.
Home extends beyond the poetics of place and soulishness, and into belonging.
Home is shelter, the language of safety and trust – those intrinsic qualities of life that often escape our everyday experience. Why else do we lament, “I just want to get home?”
We yearn for home because we want to walk around the hallways and sit at a table of sanctuary; we want to escape to the back patio and rest in conversation with our loved ones, our friends and ourselves.
Belonging.
We need home because we all of us are love givers and art lovers, music makers, hope questers and family protectors. The beauty in our humanity rests in the incomparable wonder of our sense of belonging.
It is in our togetherness that we find safety, a freedom that quickens our souls and nourishes the souls of those we love. This is what sanctuary provides.
I’m heading home for Christmas. And, I’m taking home with me on the trip. I’m leaving home behind as well. And creating a new sense of it as I journey.
I’m giving home to others this Christmas. And, I’m inserting myself into the homes of others. I’m celebrating homecoming this Christmas—the kind come down in a lowly manger. And I’m dreaming of a new home—one extraordinary and full of rest and glory.
Let’s go home, shall we?
Post Script
Got my computer back, and all seems well. Can I get an Amen?
The Stoke will return soon enough, too.
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