"Well, the Prodigal returns," she said as I schmoozed among the filling pews. Ironic, since the "Heritage Tour" had begun with a reflection on this very biblical story.
We arrived home last night after twelve long but pleasant hours in the car. In the previous eight days we had visited the city of my rearing, cities of interest, the family farm, and the city of my higher education. We had reconnected with parents, childhood friends, brother and family, daughter and, as the name implies, heritage. And though relationally warm and wonderful and renewing and nostalgic, it almost always comes with melancholic tightening of the chest when the car noses its way back into the garage, anticipation is replaced by memory, and the washer and dryer spin and tumble away all physical traces of the trek. It was a wonderful trip, and it is wonderful to be home. Still...
"So, the Prodigal returns," she said, and the lighthearted observation raised a question. A friend sitting in a pew near enough to overhear asked, "Do you feel more like a Prodigal returning there, or returning here?" And the honest truth is, I don't know. There is, as I later observed, something wonderful about touching again the soil in which my roots spread; likewise wonderful about this place on which my branches have since been grafted. I suppose I'm grateful that -- save in a strict, residential sense -- I don't have to choose. Yet with Texas in my soul and Iowa in my veins, it's not always clear just which -- if either -- is home.
And so the Prodigal returns, indeed -- first there and now here. But in the parable, the younger son returns only after he "came to himself," and feeling now like a tourist there and a still a transplant here, I hardly know any longer where such a "coming" takes me. Perhaps the task -- perhaps the blessing -- is finding oneself wherever one chooses to be, on the banks of whatever pond, under whatever tree, among those chosen to accompany you. And, giving thanks for all that has prepared the way, finding in the being...
...home.
We arrived home last night after twelve long but pleasant hours in the car. In the previous eight days we had visited the city of my rearing, cities of interest, the family farm, and the city of my higher education. We had reconnected with parents, childhood friends, brother and family, daughter and, as the name implies, heritage. And though relationally warm and wonderful and renewing and nostalgic, it almost always comes with melancholic tightening of the chest when the car noses its way back into the garage, anticipation is replaced by memory, and the washer and dryer spin and tumble away all physical traces of the trek. It was a wonderful trip, and it is wonderful to be home. Still...
"So, the Prodigal returns," she said, and the lighthearted observation raised a question. A friend sitting in a pew near enough to overhear asked, "Do you feel more like a Prodigal returning there, or returning here?" And the honest truth is, I don't know. There is, as I later observed, something wonderful about touching again the soil in which my roots spread; likewise wonderful about this place on which my branches have since been grafted. I suppose I'm grateful that -- save in a strict, residential sense -- I don't have to choose. Yet with Texas in my soul and Iowa in my veins, it's not always clear just which -- if either -- is home.
And so the Prodigal returns, indeed -- first there and now here. But in the parable, the younger son returns only after he "came to himself," and feeling now like a tourist there and a still a transplant here, I hardly know any longer where such a "coming" takes me. Perhaps the task -- perhaps the blessing -- is finding oneself wherever one chooses to be, on the banks of whatever pond, under whatever tree, among those chosen to accompany you. And, giving thanks for all that has prepared the way, finding in the being...
...home.
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1 comment:
Ultimately, no place "here" is truly our "home".
We will always be pilgrims on a journey to our true home.
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