My friend, Hani Al- Moliya, a young refugee from Syria who fled clutching his high school diploma and who is now studying in Canada said: Home is a place where I can find myself.
There are hundreds of ways of approaching the idea of home. But a lot of our thinking about home comes back to the idea of belonging. That place might be a country, or it might be a specific town, or a particular street, or a building on that street — even a room in that building. It might be a person or people — family or parents. Or it might be the magic mixture of people and place.
So if, at last, I was to come to some sort of definition of “home”, I would offer you this: Home is a place of compassionate community. It is a place where the act of compassion benefits the receiver but also enriches the giver.
– The Search for Home in Times of War and Peace, Melissa Fleming, UNHCR
Today, a Sunday, I think I now understand why God had to become human. I think it’s also to impart credibility to the words “I, God, understand”. For, in the limited confines of the human mind, only those who’ve experienced, say, human pain and suffering, truly understand those undergoing the same and so are able to respond appropriately to others. God-made-man understands the human situation. Seeking Him, the image that comes to my mind is Him in the dark Garden of Gethsemane sweating blood in anticipation of what was to come. Still, He prayed for strength, endurance, and faithfulness to tbat mysterious “home” as symbolized in the manger and it’s environs where this world first saw Him and the cross on which His earthly life ended. I earnestly pray today for the same strength, endurance, and faithfulness.
Dahil sa ‘yo ako’y matapang
Dahil sa ‘yo ako’y lalaban
The grower of trees, the gardener, the man born to farming, whose hands reach into the ground and sprout, to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn. His thought passes along the row ends like a mole. What miraculous seed has he swallowed that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water descending in the dark?
Sometimes, I forget that I am young.
I forget that I have only been blessed with a quarter of a century.
I forget that mistakes are part of trying.
I forget that fear is motivation, not food for anxiety.
I forget that friendship takes kindness, and openness.
I need to forget those who have made me less kind and less open.
I forget the way a first kiss feels.
I forget to smile sometimes.
I forget what it’s like to be wooed, except by myself.
I forget that it’s better to woo yourself than to expect others to do it for you.
I forget how to give a genuine hug to someone other than my mother and my father. Because I’m fearful others won’t return it.
I forget the sound of my first boyfriend’s voice.
I forget to eat well.
I forget to make eye contact, retail has killed a friendlier version of myself.
I forget not to stand tall and act like I don’t care, because of how I was approached when I cared.
I forget that kindness and courage can go hand in hand.
I forget who I was when I was 19.
I forget what it looks like when someone wants to be your friend.
I forget because I remember that no one can change my life, only I can.
I remember these wonderful women who have looked me in the eye, and told me good, and kind words. Strong words.
I forget that each day is a blessing. That each day is what I make it. That each day belongs to me and me alone.
I’m going to forget forgetting and start remembering.
– via thatkindofwoman
But the farmer he must feed us all.
The prayer at table is often uttered in thanksgiving to God for the food. But it is good to also include blessings for the farmer(s) who actually planted and cared and harvested ingredients of our food despite vagaries of sun, wind, and rain; for farmers to be able to continue on feeding themselves and the universe with healthy produce.