Home for Christmas

By Lynn Anderson

Where is "home" when you feel like you don't belong anywhere?

It's Christmas, and I want to go home. I miss my folks.

The nostalgic "I'll Be Home for Christmas" is sung not about a place, but about people. Come holiday season, we often spare no expense to go be with our family.

Like most, I used to visit as often as possible. While I'd never lived in my parents' town, traveling to see them was still going home—to my people. Yet, as the years went by, each trip seemed less and less like "going home." My world and my family's seemed to drift farther apart. Different circles. Different life issues.

Then, Mother left us. For two years, Parkinson's had her staring into space. But that last morning in her hospital room, she partially emerged from the fog—and even laughed with us. Then at noon, a nurse called to tell us Mom was gone. After that, "going home" was never quite the same. 

But we still had Dad—a robust, high-spirited man of 80, whom people took for 60. Then cancer struck, moving from lungs to bones to brain and causing stroke-like symptoms. So two-and-a-half weeks before Christmas, my wife Carolyn and I packed hastily and set out from Texas for Saskatchewan, Canada.

We spent those weeks at my father's bedside. I'm his only son, so although Dad couldn't speak, his eyes followed me constantly.

His condition remained unpredictable. Christmas drew closer, and our grandchildren were expecting us in Colorado Springs. We felt torn, not wanting to disappoint either Dad or our kids. Finally, we decided to rush to Colorado for Christmas and then hurry back to Dad. When I awkwardly attempted to explain this, he shook his head and finally mumbled, "I—won't be—here."

"Of course you will, Dad," I assured. He turned his face away as I repeated, "Only a few days..."  The last words I said to my father were spoken to the back of his head. We loved each other enormously, but I was leaving him and he was leaving me. Home was again slipping away at frightening speed.

Homesick

Of course, I'm not alone in dealing with this homesick feeling. It's the story of the human family from generation to generation, beginning the day man was driven from Eden. Ever since, all the sons and daughters of Adam have been homesick. Abraham, far from Ur. Moses, far from Egypt and Midian, stumbling alone up Mount Nebo. These all died in faith, without receiving what they'd longed for (Hebrews 11:13). As will all of us. Wandering. Searching. But never finding our homeland.

Whole nations become collectively homesick, especially on this side of the world. Europeans leaving family embraces and sailing westward, homeless. Africans torn from loved ones to live among strangers. Native Americans herded from vast homelands to holding pens called "reservations." And those more recently displaced by Hurricane Katrina.

But staying put won't heal this universal grieving, either. That's because even if home were just people, no human relationship lasts forever. And so not all Christmas home-thoughts are happy ones.

Homeless

The dreaded call reached me in Colorado Springs the day before Christmas—my father had passed away. I was torn: one moment, I'd been so grateful for my children and grandchildren around me; the next, I was guilt-ridden that I hadn't been by Dad's side at his last hour.  

The day after Christmas, Carolyn and I climbed into the car again for the two-day drive back to the funeral. That first day, the weather was beautiful. The second day, ominous clouds formed and the temperature fell 60 degrees in two hours. As we approached the border, we were driving into an old-fashioned blizzard. Yet, we drove on—Dad's funeral was set for the next day. 

Night fell as we crossed into Canada. Snow grew thicker. Wind rose steadily. Temperatures kept falling. As visibility neared zero, our car radio warned travelers off the highways. The storm was expected to last for days. But since "home" was now only 100 miles up the road, we crept along urgently, between those lines where the edge of the dark pavement met the vast whiteness. Periodic flurries wrapped us in total whiteout.

Suddenly, the black road disappeared under a layer of slick white, and I drove straight into a ditch, deep snow trapping us. With the highway now closed, no help was likely to come along. We were miles from anything, and our light clothing could hardly protect us from such savage weather. It sounds melodramatic in retrospect, but Carolyn and I actually began trying to shape our goodbyes to each other.

Then, out of the lethal white fury, a large freight truck appeared. At risk to himself, the driver hooked a cable to our car and snaked us back onto the pavement. Rescued.

By now, our only alternative was to drive on. However, ice had gathered on our accelerator cable, freezing the car at only two speeds: wide open and off! So I'd yank the car into gear and gather speed to 50 miles an hour, then coast in neutral to a near stop. And repeat the process.

We limped along like this for several miles, till through the blur we spotted a glow. It was the cross street of a little village. We could see no buildings—just the circle of whiteness surrounding that pool of light. But out of nowhere, a car pulled up beside us. The window slid open and a young man's voice said cheerily, "You'd better get off this road. We have a heated shed for your car and my mother has a hot supper on the stove."

By morning, the snow had let up a bit and the highway was freshly plowed. However, the temperature was now 35-below with wind gusting to 35 miles-an-hour. But our car now ran perfectly. So, we thanked our "angels" and pushed on to Weyburn, Saskatchewan in time for Dad's funeral.

While I fondly remember many happy family gatherings at my parents' house, in my soul-numbing grief, the little town seemed bleak beyond expression. Weyburn had shrunk over the years, and my parents' once-thriving church had dwindled to a remnant. A mere handful of people braved the brutal weather for the funeral service.

Two days later, the skies still gray and chilling, Carolyn and I loaded up our car and said goodbye to family and friends. We drove out of Weyburn in gloomy silence. Eventually I mumbled, "I don't think I ever want to come back here again." I felt more disconnected from any permanent sense of belonging than ever before. Homeless! In the words of the old spiritual, the "circle" definitely felt "broken."

Longing for Home

As it turns out, though, I have returned often to the land my parents once called theirs. I knew I'd someday take my children there and tell them stories of their roots. And I have sat at my parents' graves near greening fields. They are times I treasure.

But oh, how I longed for home. Still do. Especially at Christmas, I smell the smells, taste the tastes, and hear sounds of that home, with Mom and Dad, as it was when I was a child. And yet, we all leave each other eventually. No human relationship is permanent.

Infinitely more sobering: even if people could stay, no human relationship is fully fulfilling, not the warmest parent-child tie or closest friendship. Even in the most intimate and "ideal" marriage, we're still destined for a certain degree of homesickness. 

Where, oh where, then, is home?

Home is where God is. Only our heavenly Father stays permanently. And only He fulfills completely.

"Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations" (Psalm 90:1). "How lovely are your dwelling places, O Lord of hosts! My soul longed and even yearned for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God" (Psalm 84:1-2).

Only with God are we fully at home. And Christmas reminds us that the One who is the Christmas story left His home at the Father's side and became homeless. The Son of Man had "nowhere to lay his head" (Luke 9:58). Immanuel: God with us. Identifying with our homelessness.

It's a mysterious paradox: this Homeless One is the way to the place we belong. I am the way home, He said. "No one comes to the Father but through me" (John 14:6). And, "In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you" (John 14:2).

God is always waiting to gather us into His arms and welcome us home—even here, in this very place where we are strangers. So if you're wandering and homeless, our Father is out on the streets looking for you!

With you, my heavenly Father, "surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life" (Psalm 23:6). So, I have made a decision. And I am resolved. "I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." Home.

Take me home for Christmas.