Waiting to be home.

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This is my view today. It’s raining, so my baggy, men’s flannel pants are more than appropriate. There’s a bookcase to my left, and boxes and suitcases and lamps and bicycles all around.
This is moving day.
The three of us barely fit in here. On top of that, our conversation has to be squeezed into all the nooks and crannies of the vehicle. Gun control is under the driver’s seat, gender roles are in the glove compartment, injustice is on top of the bookcase, and comic relief is in my backpack.
We’re waiting for the car to take us to a place where there’s snow, and it feels like Christmas. We’re waiting for a world where love is the reigning news story. We’re waiting to be home.
Home in the sense of the place where our souls belong. Home, as in the place where there is no fear, and God lives in the middle of everything that goes on.
We’ll just say we have a long ways to go, but hope is not lost.

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