Finding Comfort in the Battle

This year has been cruel y’all--like the stinging hits of freezing rain or cutting winds of a blizzard storm-harsher climates have shifted our atmosphere. The down pour of political and civil unrest has left our country drenched in hate, apathy and fear. Racial divides, Trump’s win, continuous murders of Black Lives, Standing Rock, the threat of “the wall” going up…need I go on?

The colder the world feels the more I find myself desperately gravitating to the warm. I’m not talking about temporary measures that can be satisfied by grabbing a light jacket or adding a thin layer to accommodate a “just in case” chill. I’m talking about the need to stay close to a burning fire that has the power to restore life and feeling to that deep down to the bone-numb-I-can’t feel-my-fingers-kinda-cold. Numb is how I’ve been living.

This here America, the one we now wake up and wince in pain to see destroying itself again and again and again- is not the one my parents and ancestors fought already a trillion times to “overcome”. This America today is not the place I want to call home-so I won’t-not today.

There are days we must fight and sacrifice for what we believe in and then there are days we need to simply go home. When we are weary from the battle and unsure of our footing it is crucial that we return home-home for grounding-home for rest-home for comfort.

Home for me is found in the warm brown eyes of my husband-being nestled close into the safety of his arms. Home is being surrounded in my children's giggles and cuddles on our big brown sofa with soft blankets and fuzzy socks. In these four walls where we live and love faithfully and consistently I am filled up and made whole again.

Home smells like bubbling brown sugar and buttery tones of sweet potato pies made to order from my Momma’s kitchen. Home looks like tears wiped away gently from sacred sister who finish your sentence when you can’t speak the words.

Home is found in that special place of quiet and surrender-those precious moments when nobody else is around. Home is when the One who created me sings over me and lights again the flame that almost blew out from the cold-the cold I let sneak in from this world.

Sometimes courage means rising high to organize and petition and sometimes courage means getting low on floors with toddlers and grabbing crayons and coloring books.

Sometimes brave looks like protests and presentations and other times brave looks like pajamas and oversized tea cups.

Sometimes brave looks like coming home.

I’m still trying to find the balance of the going out and the coming in. This time I almost stayed away too long. May you too never get to far away from what matters most-may you too always remember to return home.