coming home...

At the close of my time in Ottawa, it was clear that I needed to spend some more time in prayer and solitude. And as I drove home, the mystery of this moment was physically confirmed for me in the darkness. Right after crossing the border, my car's gas light came on. With mounting frustration I could not find any gas stations that were open. So much has been abandoned and boarded up in Upper State New York. Taking a turn towards Fort Drum on a wing and a prayer, I literally coasted into a small convenience store at the end of the line on fumes. With gratitude, I popped my ATM card into the machine and pumped almost 16 gallons into my bone dry tank before setting off again as the sun slipped below the horizon. Just past 5 pm, the sky suddenly looked like midnight. I was weary. The road looked deserted. The air was bitter cold. And my passive-aggressive GPS kept telling me to get off the interstate and take some mysterious short cut on a back road. Candidly, I was just too tired to even consider such a gamble.

So I plodded forward for another hour filled with uncertainty and trepidation. My throat was scratchy and I could feel a cold taking root within. I was not thrilled to know I would be on the road for another four hours.  And then, when I least expected it, a huge moon popped into view illuminating the night sky and banishing my disorienting darkness. Spontaneously, I fumbled through my cache of CDs to find the New York Rock and Soul Review/  And  then like Van Morrison himself, I danced with the moon in the car the rest of the way home. Pulling into the security of our driveway I sensed that while there are still a host of perplexing obscurities to sort out in the months ahead, St. John's experience was still right: a light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot put it out. By faith I trust this to be true.

Our old dog, Lucie, dashed down the basement stairs to greet me doing 360's in midair. Di says that for three days Lucie spent time simply staring at the basement door wondering, "When the hell is he coming back?" She moped and whined. Paced incessantly, too. And then went berserk with thanksgiving when I finally came home. Her rejoicing at these homecomings is drop dead funny - but humbling, too. Di, who is tons more restrained than Lucille, was equally loving in making certain I felt welcomed back into the fold. We talked and laughed, held one another, ate simple omelettes for supper, and caught up on all that had taken place over the days I was away. 

My head cold is miserable today: constant sneezing and wheezing with a throat that is sore intermittently. Still, I wouldn't have missed being in community for anything. Nor would I have missed the joy of this homecoming. Paul Hostovsky puts it like this in his poem, "History of Love."

Because he loves the way she has
of touching him
and because she loves the way he has
of loving her
each has learned the other's
way and the other's touch
so when love turns
and the world turns
and the lovers turn from each other and go
to other lovers they take
they take all they know
of love and of touch
and they give it to another
and in this way love grows rich
and wise and wide among us
and in this way we are also
loving those who will come after
and those who came before
we ever came to love