Coming home. Just the phrase evokes a sense of well-being and comfort. In my mind’s eye, I am walking over frosted fields toward a small, isolated house sitting in a copse of bare-branched trees. An icy wind is whistling around my ears; it is early evening and the first stars are appearing on the horizon. I keep on, toward the house, toward the lighted windows, toward the winding path of the gravel driveway. The scent of woodsmoke reaches me from the chimney, and someone steps out onto the wide porch and waves to me. Come on! I’m waiting for you. I walk faster, toward light, warmth, companionship, and a hot bowl of soup.

That is the way I am feeling on my spiritual journey. I have been away a very long time. I used to live in that spiritual house and then a traumatic divorce made me suspect it. I couldn’t understand how I could live in that house and yet feel as though my life had been ripped open and emptied and cast aside. I ran as far away as I could and looked for other places to live. I found some beautiful houses, but I was always the guest there. I read the texts and adopted some of the practices and considered the world from those points of view. Some of the beliefs I encountered centered on the power of the individual, some on purification, some on self-actualization, some on the importance of keeping God’s laws.

As beautiful as those ideas and goals may have been, none of the spiritual houses I visited seemed to understand the idea of the love God has for His creation, including me. None of them seemed to see God’s hand stretched out toward us. None of them offered me the chance to talk to the Creator of the Universe, and much less did they allow that He would be interested in the fact that my car died or that I really needed a new job or that a friendship needed to be mended. None of them offered relief from the spiritual burdens I carried. None of them helped me look at the dark places of my soul and helped me to heal from the filth I found there, gently, firmly, and completely without condemnation.

At some point, I received the grace to see that all these beautiful homes were empty for me. So I turned my feet toward the home I knew best, the one I knew I could trust even though I didn’t always understand why it was trustworthy, the one that was full of light and power and grace and truth and healing. As I turned toward it, the One Who Loves Me opened the door and came out on the porch. He waved to me, a huge grin splitting his face. Then He ran down the steps and out into that frosty field and threw His arms around me and welcomed me home.

If you are lost, as I was, if you are hurting, ask God to come into your life, ask Him to show you your shortcomings and your rebellion, and give your life to Him. There is forgiveness, mercy, love, and plenty of room in this house. I am joyful to know in my bones that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light – and that His house is mine again.