I am nearly home. Two more flights, and I am back to rebuilding my home, and walking wth the people God has called me to serve at St. Mary’s and the Diocese of Texas. 

I’ve been so very aware during my time in Iceland of the juxtaposition between my life this past two weeks and the hardships folks were bearing back at home. In the midst of receiving two weeks of beauty and care, I’ve been listening for what God is giving me to share with others. 

Having lived a year of rebuilding on every level of my life this past year after the Tax Day Flood, I knew that I would need to rest deeply to prepare for what was ahead. I did not deserve the trip; I hadn’t earned the trip. It was pure grace. 

 I have been immerced in kindness and beauty and generosity on my trip. 

I am grateful for this birthday gift as I see what God has in store until the anniversary of my birthday this time next year.  

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I am remembering all of the homes where I have lived.   They are each places tied to important moments in my life. 

A little rent house in Waco where I was brought home from the hospital.  A house on Colcord in Waco where I met my brother, Austin. 

An apartment in south Dallas while waiting for our new home to be completed.  Our home at 1808 Swansee,  Dallas 32, Texas, where I met my other brother, Richard. My home at 4012 Fountainhead, Dallas 75234, where I was married. 

 

An apartment on South Oak Cliff Boulevard where my daughter Lisa was brought home from the hospital.   

An apartment on South Walton Walker where I commuted to college. 

A townhouse on Olde Forge where I drove to my first teaching job. 

My first house I owned on Valleywood in Carrollton.

My new home in Houston on Beechmoor where I brought my son Jacob home from the hospital; where I was made a postulant for Holy Orders; and where I served in my first parish. 

St. Mary’s Rectory on Laneview where I’ve lived the past 20 years. 

And in the past year, I’ve had seven temporary homes as a result of two Houston floods. I am very grateful for each of these temporary homes and the hospitality each represents. 

However, I’m a person who values finding a place to live and staying put. Benedictine spirituality calls it stability. 

Even when I travel, I usually look for a home base and day trip out so that I go back to the same place, my away home, each night to rest. 

I do not like to move.   Yet changes and chances of life have given me new homes that have each been a part of who I am becoming. 

Yesterday, at my hotel home in Reykjavik, the hot water in the bath wouldn’t turn off. The staff tried to fix it three times, but it only seemed to get more scalding. The staff asked if they could move us to another room. It would be an upgrade. 

My friend was concerned I wouldn’t want to move, but we had to be able to take a shower. 

So we stuffed all our belongings into bags and suitcases, and the staff came to help us relocate. 

Instead of a lovely, small, but more than adequate room, we were moved to a luxury suite on the top floor with a terrace.  I must add that my friend had used points from a credit card to book our four nights, and we had paid nothing for our more than fine room.   Now we had a suite with an amazing view, and still it was free.

Rachel Sage sings a song about home:

Home is where you’re taken in.       
Fearlessly breathing with the wind.    
 Home is where you set your spirit down.   
 I’m at home in all this beauty.        
 Everything about it moves me
I may be from another place but home is where I am now
Where I am now. 

For now, I am learning for home to be wherever I am now.   I am learning how to put my spirit down and make any place a home. 

When I return to Houston on Thursday, I will move to another home.  

The truth is, all homes this side of heaven are temporary. They are only places to prepare for the home with a view beyond imagination. Everyone will be upgraded, and it has already been paid for. Free for us all. 

Photos are from my travels around Iceland yesterday and today.   My heimili or home for now. 

Today is church.  My friend and I walked the half mile uphill in the cold and rain to worship. It was glorious. 

As I entered the nave, the choir was practicing.  As beautiful music surrounded me, I lit candles with prayer intentions for friends, family, and neighbors. 



The liturgy was in Icelandic; however, the usher gave us a warm welcome and handed me a guide to worship in English. 

Grateful for the printed guide, I thought of Molly and Jennifer back at home.  I was appreciative for the difference it makes to have a person sitting right beside who is familiar with the service to guide us through. The paper, though very well-intentioned, is not as helpful as a neighbor.  

Worship, no matter what the language, is still centered with God,  and I knew pretty much what was going on and could chime in English at appropriate moments.  The sermon was preached with enthusiasm, but except for hearing Mary and Martha mentioned,  I hadn’t a clue. 

After worship, we walked around the corner for cappacinos and a light lunch at our favorite local coffee spot, Reykjavik Roasters. 

It was a good morning. 

Yesterday I stopped. Stopping allowed some time for feelings to rise about flooding–my own and the many, many more from places near and far.  The smaller sadness of my heart being broadened and deepened by the greater sadness of my neighbors flooded throughout our world. 

Recently I’ve thought of the words of a friend who flooded for the first time from Harvey.  My friend said that he had always loved the sound of waking to rain–but that quotidian joy had been destroyed by the new association of that sound and the feeling of stepping off his bottom steps into the waters of a flooded home. That’s what disasters and tragedies can do–take something we love and pair it with something painful. 

I experienced that on my trip. I love waterfalls, but on this trip to Iceland the sound of rushing waters has become connected with seeing the destruction of flood waters in my home. 

When my friend wanted to go visit nearby waterfalls yesterday, I decided to stay in our lovely hotel and knit and tend to some flood matters in Houston. 

Later that afternoon when the sun had come out, I asked my friend if she wanted to return to the waterfalls and take me with her. Of course she did–she’s that kind of friend. 

As we approached the stunning beauty of the falls,  I could feel my heart and soul fill with sadness at the same time my eyes were filled with the extravagant view of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall. Pain and strength and healing all at once. 

As we drove back to our hotel, we spotted a lovely church just off the road. It was in the midst of an installation by a local artist whose sculptures are worked in the local rock. 

Inside this exquisite church, the altar, baptismal font, and lectern were all his creation. 

Over the altar were two sculptures–one of a crucified Jesus and the other of a resurrected Christ. 

This is where I stand. Between the suffering of Jesus and the light and joy of the resurrection.  It is the place I am, and it is holy. 

Filled with the beauty of our very brief in miles road trip we returned to our hotel to dress for dinner. 

As we waited and waited and then waited some more for dessert to be served, good conversation with laughter was enjoyed. Turns out, the chef really did have to bake my cake!  Halfway though enjoying it’s luciousness, we saw two photographers running through the lobby and outside the front door. Hurrying from our  table, leaving our food behind, we went outside to see the green swirl and dance of the Northern lights. 

If the cake hadn’t needed time to bake, we’d have missed the lights. 

The suffering Jesus. The resurrected Christ. 

And the place in between.