The in-between places are the hardest. My heart longs for home soil to put down roots. Instead I’m here. Its home for now, but it’s not my final destination.
My heart wanders but I am not a wanderer. I wander because I am searching for something specific, a place.
The place.
The place where I belong. I have faith that the place exists and that I will arrive there. I know that’s true. But I also know that I am called to be here right now.
And what do I do in the time that I am here. It’s not really home. But I am planted here right now. And roots grow in soil. But how can I put down roots here when I know that sometime soon I will be moving on, tearing them up with me and leaving some behind.
What does it look like to live in a place that is not my destination? How do I live in a stop along the way, a place on the map? How do I dwell in an in-between place?
My heart is stirring for home. My feet are itching for the road that will lead me there. The wind seems to blow the fragrance of the place across my face. Under the sky I feel closer. When I see open grass my heart dances, when I stand under a tree my soul reverberates with echoing still. There are pieces of home scattered about. I ache for it. But still, I am here.
I am here.
I am here, I am here, I AM HERE.
Why am I here? How can I inhabit a place that isn’t home without ripping my heart in two when I leave? I guess that’s the real question. How can I live and grow here and be safe from the heart ache of moving on?
I can’t. It isn’t possible. And I know I will move on. And I know if I put down roots so that I may bloom it will hurt to leave this in-between place. The question is will I risk it?
