Most of my friends are putting up Christmas trees and adorning their homes with festive decorations. The photos they post and share are exquisite.

For a number of years I’ve had a different. practice. At Thanksgiving, days before the beginning of Advent, I walk down to the lake at my mother’s farm and clip blue berry laden juniper branches to take back to Houston to prepare my home for Advent.

Before Christmas arrives, I love observing Advent. The image I’ve held in my heart for years is a very pregnant Mary pondering and waiting, with hope and uncertainty held together in open hands.

Blue being the color of hope, and being the color Mary most often is depicted wearing, for the first twenty four days of December my home is full of blue.

Yesterday I clipped and arranged juniper branches gathered at Thanksgiving last week. placed them in bowls and vases, on table, buffet, and mantle throughout my temporary home in Tomball. It’s nearly Advent!

However, this year I had not gathered the branches my self. My injured ankle prevented me from walking the uneven terrain to clip the branches. Instead I remembered to ask for help. My nephew and niece and brothers lopped off limbs of brown, green, and blue for me.

This year my Advent preparations are a concrete reminder that we are invited to not wait alone. Together we hold hope and uncertainty in shared and clasped hands

God set me on the path of healing again. Turn me to the rising sun when I need to be inspired. Turn me to the wilderness when I need to be lost. Turn me toward the world when I need to work. Turn me toward the mountain when I need to retreat. So that on turning I find Your loving grace all around. (Prayer by Becca Stevens in Love Heals)

A week ago, walking on uneven ground, I sprained my ankle. The pain of healing has slowed me down. The injury is not a surprise as I walk in the wilderness of this second flooding in less than two years.

Several people have commented that it must be easier handling the second flooding of my home. Some say that since I know the drill it must not be as difficult.

These are very kind and very caring people, and because they love me I think they may hope it’s easier.

But as a friend commented, a second broken arm hurts as much as the first. You may know better how the healing process goes, but the familiarity does not make it easier.

As Becca Stevens writes, I am back in the wilderness again. I am lost, but I learned tools in the last flood that assure me that what is lost will be found. I do know from the first flood that there is great beauty in the wilderness. 

I wish I were not back in the wilderness, but I know I am being found.  I also know that there is the beauty of love, companionship, unexpected gifts, and abounding grace.

Yes. It hurts. And still I am thankful.

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.