I have been here (in Memphis) long enough for my nightstand book to collect dust, mail a letter, and do my first load of laundry.

It's been a long time since I have felt truly at home. Nashville, where I was born and raised, is foreign to me now. I'm not there long enough to even buy a decent cup of coffee.
Searcy has its hints of home. A familiar smile, the occasional fried okra in the caf, southern accents.

But that rich, deep homey feeling is not something I have felt in a long time. And although you may not think it, that has more affect on a person that I could have ever guessed.

But last night, hands were laid on me. Soft hands, rough hands, old hands, young hands. Hands with wrinkles that tell of time and hurt and work. That tell of memories, laughter, and a love for a Savior that is thicker than anything I've ever experienced. The moment was not lost on me. The elders wanted to pray over Cooper and I. For our summer, for our work with the kids, but mostly just for US. And I opened my eyes as the thought struck me. A smile curved on the edges of my lips, and my heart felt at peace. Peace. Something almost as foreign as a feeling of home. I was surrounded, physically, emotionally, mentally, metaphorically, by love and safety and warmth. Tears fill my eyes. That feeling you get right before you cry, the one that forms behind your cheeks and acts like it's going to take over: that's what helps me write these words.

Sure, I'm only here for the summer. I have no idea what it will bring, what God will do. But as He reminded me the second day I was here, He is here. And when all else fails, I rest in that. If nothing else, even for a brief second, I felt home.