I drove out to Scot's house last night, after a 6.5 hour shift at the Roadhouse, because I love his chickens t--h--i--s m--u--c--h.Not really. The chickens are fun, but I'm a much bigger fan of the cat.
The first thing I did, upon arrival, was get my truck stuck in the snow. Funny thing about that; I was just telling a friend that all my arrogance over my winter driving skills would come back to haunt me. And there I was, all stuck and whatnot.
The second thing I did was swear loudly, and the third thing I did was make a cup of tea. After that it gets boring, and my nose was cold.
It's a long drive out to Scot and Jen's house, but the nice thing about it is getting Richmond, Dayton, and Cincinnatti radio stations relatively well. I appreciate having my scanning opportunities enhanced; each new station represents a higher chance that I won't be disgusted with the song they're playing.
Home played as I drove through Eaton, complete with the obligatory 'does every train in America have to go through Eaton, because it feels like I always have to stop at this crossing' experience. If you go here you can listen to the song yourself.
And I’ve been keeping all the letters that I wrote to you
Each one a line or two
“I’m fine baby, how are you?”
Well I would send them but I know that it’s just not enough
My words were cold and flat
And you deserve more than that
I owe my sisters Valentine's Day cards, I'm told, since I had snowdays on which to complete them. (And they aren't allowed to be Violentine's Day cards, even though that would be vastly more amusing.) I can make them belated ones, or just start now on some goofy Ash Wednesday cards; my mom wouldn't approve, but Kim at least would think they were great.
So I've been thinking about my sisters, and thinking about home... hardly suprising topics. Buble seems to be singing to a person who is home to him, rather than to a place. I tinkered with the idea that a person could be home for me. Maybe that's how I think of my sisters, or maybe it's how I could think of some dreamboat fellow like the guy who left his number with the bartender last night.
Maybe not, though. That's a lot of load for someone else to bear, to be home for me.
What would it mean to think of God as my home?
1 comment:
When Jason proposed to Naomi, he read her a poem they had both previously enjoyed (or something) but the point is that the last line was, "with you I am home." I think this is along the lines of what you're getting at, and it's a challenge to contemplate how life could be lived if God was "our home."
Post a Comment