Home for Christmas

                                                            

"To an open house in the evening
Home shall men (we) come.
To an older town that Eden
And a taller town that Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star.
To the things that cannot be and that are.
To the place where God was homeless
And all men (of us) are at home."
                    --G.K. Chesterton

Every Christmas our thoughts turn toward home. And planes, trains and automobiles bring people back. To a place, a spot where the smells and sounds and even the silences are familiar. To the ticking of a clock and the barking of a dog and a street where everything is familiar.

Home to your room even though you haven’t lived there in twenty years. On the wall is that hideous picture you painted in high school. Nestled in the back of the closet is your wrapped-up wedding dress. Under one of the beds, if you looked closely, you would still find a box of your old stuff--treasures really. Old letters, an autograph book, yellowing clippings of your accomplishments, the bulletin from the day you were baptized. There are old photographs and matchbook covers and even a prom program.

And so you come back home as you sometimes come back in dreams.Home. There’s nothing quite like it. Some remember a porch where you sat watching fireflies late at night. Or the porch where you sneaked your first cigarette long after everyone else had gone to bed. That same porch where you kissed your first girl. Some remember the kitchen and a round table laden down with all your favorite foods. Others remember a bedroom where, even when the wind blew and it was dark and cold outside you felt safe under a mound of quilts and blankets. For some, home is the backyard or the garden or a garage or even an old oak tree.

And so we pack our bags, shuffle our schedules and travel long distances to come back. Back to what? A place. A time. Mostly people. We come to touch the base—to recover our identity. To be assured once more that we are connected. Linked and tied to somebody and somewhere and some time. We come back to have our names called as only they can call our names. To have someone remember our history—even the embarrassing moments. Maybe—just maybe—we come to turn back the clock to a time and place where life was simple and not so complicated. When our dreams were bright and life stretched out with such promise and possibility. We go back hauling reluctant children and grandchildren for a thousand different reasons. But mostly, I think we return to find our way once more.