Recently someone asked me what few items I would grab if my home was burning down. My Bible is the first obvious answer; it's been with me since I can remember. Yes, I have several significant souvenirs from my travels, or memorable objects from my childhood, but those can't hold a candle to my journal. My leather journal is the sacred place where I pray and process, rejoice and lament.
These journal pages have seen the world. They are worn-in, tea-stained, warped by the rain. They've been with me since the 8th grade - when I first discovered my heart for writing. Since then, they've been graced by the subtle rays of the morning sun in my apartment in Buenos Aires. They've bounced along dirt roads of the Peruvian Andes. They have laid in the warm sand of the West Coast.
But it isn't really about the places they've been to. It's much more about the silent battles they've fought, the darkness they've faced, the little glimpses of the Kingdom they have witnessed. They know no home, and really, my heart isn't much different.
Home used to be a place to lay my head, a place of safety and refuge, a place to feel settled, at peace, comfortable. God stripped me of that preconceived perspective and gave me something much more beautiful, but all the more challenging. I now see that this mindset is absolutely fatal to the wild, untamed nature of the Holy Spirit living within a human being. Home is where I feel the Spirit coursing through my veins, when I'm existing for something unseen, when I'm reaching unfathomable heights or profound depths, where I'm praying with all I have in me that the good Lord will come through on His promises.
I've buried bits and pieces of my heart all over the map in "homes" that I've stumbled across, from sub-Saharan Africa to the rolling hills of Nicaragua. Although these places are beautiful, it's not the place on a map that gets me; it's the seeds that were sown deep into my heart by His Almighty hands in that place at that time. And those seeds began to break and take root as I furiously scribbled on the pages of my journal. Home can be a passing season of fellowship, servitude, loneliness or fruitfulness. It's the images that flash through my mind; it's sometimes the laughter, mostly the tears; it's that moment where I could almost grab onto the tangible presence of the Holy Spirit hanging in the air. It's where I run to when I'm in awe and reverence of my God.
These paradoxical sentiments of belonging and homelessness come alive within this leather-bound book of mine. I believe this is God reaffirming me that He will keep me moving, from one unsettling, candid, Spirit-filled experience to the next, just to be close to me, because He knows that's when I feel closest to Him. These quiet moments have unfolded all over the globe as I experienced His creativity through culture, nature or community. I felt completely at peace and settled, yet homesick for something greater, for that piece of the Kingdom that has not yet come.
Not ever being fully settled, or constantly saying goodbye to another "home" just directs my gaze to my true Home. And that's right where He wants me. I am never truly home unless I am resting in Him. Latitudes and longitudes will never measure up to the belonging I have found in the Kingdom. He wants to live in me here on earth, so that I can also live every day in Him.
So friends, go forth boldly and find homes all over the globe. Plant fruitful seeds and grow deep roots, but don't be afraid to have your heart scattered all over.
Remember that it's not about the location, it's about the seeds sown there. It's not about the place at present, but about the Kingdom coming.
-Katy Broesche // @katethegrate_ful_