A soldiers young daughter (her father in the process of being transferred and moved to a distant post) sits on the floor in an airport departure lounge, among her family's meager and ragtag belongings. Sleepy, the girl leans against the packs and lays her head on a duffel bag.
A well-dressed woman walking the concourse, stops when she sees the scene, and pats the little girl on the head. "Poor child," the woman says. "You haven't got a home."
The child looks up in surprise. "But we do have a home ma'am," she answers. "We just don't have a house to put it in." In her wisdom, the little girl knew that home is not what we own, but who we are.
It means a gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice, which desires our attention. Home is the place where that first love dwells and speaks gently to us. (Henri Nouwen)
No comments:
Post a Comment