Home

When I first saw the driver for the Karigiri Hospital SUV at Katpadi Station (Vellore), I remember thinking, "home." At the time, my only goal was to get to Karigiri. Ever since then (so for about five weeks now), I've been wrestling with that word, that idea. Karigiri isn't my home, nor is Rameshwaram my home, nor is "Atlanta, you know the Olympics in 1996," (which is how I responded to the frequent questions "you are from which place?" or "what is your native?"), nor is TFC, nor is Dallas. There is something about the place of your childhood though. One time I saw the word "Georgia" written somewhere, and I just smiled, because I am so far from my place here, and Georgia just pulls at some strings inside the core of my being.

I read in Hebrews 11:13, "All these died in faith, without receiving the promises, but having welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth." Again, in 1 Peter begins his first epistle with, "To those who reside as aliens, scattered throughout..." Jesus was homeless. Siddhartha. Rich Mullins. Chris McCandless. So many missionaries and missionaries' children. There's something to this homelessness that really appeals to me. So, where is home? Heaven? Where the heart is? Where you make it (or Joe Dirt's interpretation)? I can't really say right now. I know that I really want to see Jesus face to face, but I also know that I really want to see my friends and family and have a cold glass of sweet tea.

For those of you who have access, listen to Rich Mullins song "Home." He expresses the same ideas much more artfully than me.