home

today, at 5:55 pm i am flying to calgary, alberta.

i have never lived in calgary, nor anywhere west of windsor, ontario actually. but since the parents, the three brothers, and their families have migrated their lives distinctly westward, this place where i have never lived is the home in 'i'll be home for christmas'.

there is a slight weirdness whenever i am asked when i am going home, since for the last eleven years, i have lived in mississauga, effectually making here home as well. when i am tired at the end of the day, this address in streetsville is my last stop at night.

and yet, tomorrow, westjet airlines gets to take me home. to see mom and dad. the siblings. the niece and all the nephews. to laughter. to friends.

home.

wherever you find yourself over the next few days, i wish you much peace, joy, laughter and love as we celebrate the arrival of a tiny baby who left his home, so we could ultimately be at home with our Father.

i found this beauty of a poem by g. k. chesterton that i didn't even know existed. enjoy!

the house of christmas
by g. k. chesterton

there fared a mother driven forth
out of an inn to roam;
in the place where she was homeless
all men are at home.
the crazy stable close at hand,
with shaking timber and shifting sand,
grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
than the square stones of rome.

for men are homesick in their homes,
and strangers under the sun,
and they lay on their heads in a foreign land
whenever the day is done.
here we have battle and blazing eyes,
and chance and honour and high surprise,
but our homes are under miraculous skies
where the yule tale was begun.

a child in a foul stable,
where the beasts feed and foam;
only where he was homeless
are you and i at home;
we have hands that fashion and heads that know,
but our hearts we lost - how long ago!
in a place no chart nor ship can show
under the sky's dome.

this world is wild as an old wives' tale,
and strange the plain things are,
the earth is enough and the air is enough
for our wonder and our war;
but our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
and our peace is put in impossible things
where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
round an incredible star.

to an open house in the evening
home shall men come,
to an older place than eden
and a taller town than rome.
to the end of the way of the wandering star,
to the things that cannot be and that are,
to the place where God was homeless
and all men are at home.

merry christmas eve!