hold on, we're going home.

Here I’ve been making lavish goals for the year when what my soul needs the most is to seek. So that’s where I’ve been: a lot of sitting and reading and writing and seeking in the only way I know how. Yesterday as I was reading through Genesis, I learned that when the Lord confused the languages of the people at the Tower of Babel—it wasn’t simply a punishment for their act of pride—it was an act of deep mercy, the ones the Lord frames everything in the Bible with. As the Lord took away their hometowns, the people’s feet soon had nowhere to land. Their hometown had to become the Lord—something we’re still fighting against today.

For the past three years of “adult life”, I’ve been looking for the place where my feet should land. What city am I called to? Surely you don’t want me to stay in Atlanta forever, Lord? Surely you have a place for me? And the Lord says yes- I have prepared a place for you to find refuge. But it’s not what you think—it’s me. And you might think that’s frustrating—but that’s only because you can’t see that this is the best and only place for your feet to land—that it is an act of my deepest and truest mercy to give you a longing for a home and have the only real answer be me, the Lord tells me.

My senior year of college, I moved into a sweet brick house with a wide white porch wrapped around the front in Rome, GA. I lived there by myself for the second semester of my senior year. And in that house, I wrestled. I wrestled with who I was and who I wanted to be. I wrestled with the circumstances around me and whether or not I was as alone as I felt. I wrestled with future careers and future cities and a future marriage. That house was my wrestling ring and it's sweetness held me when all I wanted to do was escape. I think about that now-- just a house-- but how it held so astutely all the battles that took place within. It was a temporary home that covered and stood when all I did was curse that this wasn't where I was supposed to be. 

I don't want to do that again. And maybe you don't either. I don't want to have a home and spend my time complaining that these are not the walls in which I am meant to be confined. Especially if where I'm sitting keeps drawing me to the feet of Jesus.

Jesus draws a map over and over to the place where I belong and I choose to throw tantrums that I can’t find the way on my own.

Find my own way home—when I’ve been sitting on a goldmine of “home” all along—if I’ll just sit right where I am and seek.