A few weeks ago we crashed the home of a missionary family to spend a little with them before the head back to the States. We have not worked directly with this family but spent three weeks with them last summer in Cross-Training. Like good guests we requested that they pick us up at the bus stop and bring us back to their house to eat their food and sit in their living room. It was lovely.
As we talked about life and ministry our friend asked us a question that I had not given a lot of thought to. ¨When did Spain start to feel like home?¨ For this family it was about the ninth month. Funny enough, they are finishing up a 11ish month term and will be heading back to the States to press play on their lives in Kentucky.
I think at that point (a few weeks ago) we had already began thinking of Spain as home. Earlier I began training myself to stop referring to North Carolina/The States as home. Think what you may about that but, it just didn't seem right to me. Sure, I will always have ¨a home¨ there, but for me, now, Spain is my home.
Sometimes it is a scary thought. Sometimes it's intimidating and frustrating and a lot of other negative emotions. But other times it's beautiful and peaceful and better than I ever imagined. Every time I look out our window or otherwise catch a glimpse of the mountains that surround me almost all the time, I am reminded of the promise that God gave me.
The mountains will sing.
Sometimes it might be my own single voice singing praises to God. Sometimes others will join and will make a chorus of joyful songs. But God promised me mountains. And to me, that promise is home.
