I first met Tania Vaughan online in the Woman Alive book club, and then I got to meet her in person when we both traveled to Surrey to hear the wonderful Liz Curtis Higgs speak. After our meeting I reflected on how wonderful the online community can be – here was a new friend who was just the same in person as she was online. In her post on finding her home, she opens her heart and shares deeply – I trust her vulnerability will touch and move you, as it did me.
Thinking about ‘Home’ has been an interesting experience. As I thought about how that word often relates to safety, security, stability and love, I realised that’s not what it meant to me.
At the impressionable age of 7 I watched as my home was torn apart first by divorce and then a custody battle. My safe, secure, stable and loving home changed dynamics and then location completely.
Little did I know that it is around the age of 7 when our script for life is written. My script said that nothing is safe, nowhere is secure, there is no stability and you will be abandoned. This insight came 30 years later as I dealt with my abandonment issues in therapy.
It was only then that I could see how that script had impacted my life and how I felt about home. I never settled. I could live anywhere because nowhere held any meaning. I always said “a house is just bricks and mortar, it means nothing”. Moving on didn’t leave me with regret or sadness and I never held tight enough to anything to want to stay.
With my mum and step-father.
A lot of people feel like that about places; many would say that home is the people you’re with. This was the bigger problem for me. Not holding on to bricks and mortar was one thing but I realised I’d done the same with people. That first feeling of abandonment carried with me into every connection and relationship. I moved from one relationship to another without a backward glance. Friendships were shallow and meaningless, discarded and easily forgotten. There were no people I could call home; I believed they’d all abandon me in the end.
If they didn’t seem to be making moves to abandon me I would systematically destroy the relationship so that what I believed would bear out – people leave. I even left myself! As the destructive behaviour spiralled, self-harm and suicide attempts earned me a stay in a mental health hospital. It was there, as I faced myself, that I decided this was not where I wanted to make my home.
A few short years later, Jesus grabbed hold of me. Through the example of his love, God’s reassurance, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6), penetrated my defenses. It took my God-given husband another five years of battling my need to push him away before I realised he will never leave me either.
Without the fear of abandonment I have found stability and safety, a place and people to call home. It is only very recently as we have contemplated future plans that even the thought of leaving the house, the home we have built together, tugs at my heart strings. There are memories here and love has poured into the paintwork as we made it our own. The home I craved for so long has now rooted in the bricks and mortar around me.
To be homeless means to have nowhere to live, but it is so much more than just bricks and mortar. I always had a roof over my head but my heart was homeless. Now, through the transforming love of Jesus, this transient heart has found a home.
With my lovely husband.My little office, a place set apart for me to think and write.A fire makes everything so cosy.
I got to know Ben Irwin when we both worked for Zondervan – but in different countries. He and I had the privilege of launching Rob Lacey’s amazing The Word on the Street, the Bible in street language. We both loved Rob, and hated seeing him battling cancer, but I think we’d both say that working with him on such a creative project has been a highlight of our editing careers. We’ve both moved into writing, which as you’ll see in Ben’s piece has been a process and something to be embraced (which is true for me too). I love his thoughts on home. Enjoy!
Somewhere in Wyoming on one of our cross-country moving adventures.
Finding your home can be tough when you’re always on the move.
I was born on the East Coast of the United States but spent my formative years in the Deep South, where the minute someone heard my accent for the first time, they would invariably say, “You’re from the North, aren’t you?” It was more accusation than inquiry.
There was a time (before kids) when it seemed like my wife and I were always packing, moving, unpacking—only to repeat the cycle soon after. Five times in four years we moved. Michigan to Seattle. Seattle to England. England back to Seattle. Seattle to Tacoma (a cheaper, more laid back version of Seattle about 30 miles south). Tacoma to Michigan.
With every move, we looked back longingly on the last place we had lived. I found it hard to feel at home anywhere. When you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, you forget to be fully present where you are now.
It took me a long time to learn the art of being content where I am, instead of always wondering where we’ll go next or wishing we were back in the last place we lived. In some ways, I’m still learning.
Here’s one thing that has helped me: realizing that I have more than one “home,” and that’s OK.
Seattle, 2007.Seattle, 2007.Amanda working at one of Seattle’s iconic coffee shops, 2007.
Each of the places we’ve lived has shaped us in some way—sometimes simple, sometimes profound. These places have become, in a sense, a part of who we are—each one a part of our idea of “home.”
When we moved from Michigan to Seattle, we learned the value of living with less—less home, less stuff, one less car. The values of simplicity and sustainability took up residence in our hearts.
Although we spent just seven months in England, it was long enough for us to find a new spiritual “home.” Someone invited us to the parish church in our village for Easter Sunday, and we’ve been Anglicans ever since. We’ve been soaked in the liturgies, prayers, and practices of a tradition that was new and strange to us at the time—yet now feels more like home than any other church we’ve been part of.
It’s because of one of those five moves that I am a writer today. We traversed the country so I could start a new job. It was the first time anyone ever paid me to write, and I’ve been writing ever since. It’s become my vocational “home.” Those who took a chance on an untested writer and helped me nurture my craft have since become part of our extended family.
England, 2008.Tacoma, 2010, just before our daughter was born.Tacoma, 2010Introducing our daughter to one of our past homes—England, 2012.
Today, it’s in the company of friends around the globe that we feel most at home. Some of our children’s godparents are those we met in the UK. Even though we go months and sometimes years without seeing each other face to face, when we’re together—whether it’s on our side of the ocean or theirs—it feels like we’re home.
The idea of having more than one home—or that our sense of “home” need not be bound by geography—should not seem strange to those of us who are Christians. As followers of Jesus, we live in one kingdom while our citizenship belongs to another.
This is not to say that “this world is not my home / I’m just a-passing through,” to quote the American Southern Gospel number.
Riches upon riches – that’s what this blog series, “There’s No Place Like Home,” is. And today I’m thrilled to host the marvelous Cathy Madavan, a firecracker of a woman who is passionate about living the Christian life with joy, purpose, and commitment. When I was working as a publisher with Authentic Media, I longed to commission her – and was thrilled when she said yes. I love, love, love her book Digging with Diamonds, which I got to help her with – if you haven’t read it, do so. She’s not only brilliant with catchy turn-of-phrases, but has the wisdom and depth to go with it. And yes, she was the one who came up with the title for this series!
No place like home.
There really is no place like home. And by home I mean the place where you can kick off your shoes and sprawl over the sofa armed with a book and a cavernous bag of crisps/bar of chocolate/bowl of popcorn *delete as desired*.
Of course, the pressure is always on for us to create the ‘ideal home’ straight from the pages of a glossy magazine, but creating a home is different to constructing a house. It takes an architect and some bricklaying experience to construct a house, but if we want to create an home environment where relationships can thrive, that also takes some planning and skill. It’s worth thinking about what we want to build, so that we can deliberately put the right foundations and building blocks in place.
Build what matters
I once visited a home with a sign above the door that read, “If you want to visit the house make an appointment. If you want to visit us, come any time.” Good point, I thought. We all want our houses to be warm and welcoming, but will people really feel more at home because your trinkets are displayed in perfect symmetry? Will they be so dazzled by your spotless floor that they want to open up their hearts and reveal their hopes and fears? Not so much. Now, I do love my house – I could well suffer from Obsessive Cushion Disorder and have spent an embarrassing amount of hours choosing the right shade of cream for the walls, but it’s not a home because of shabby chic accessories.
So, rather than spending too much time discussing our fabulous new feature wall or conversely moaning about our collection of cobwebs and unfinished projects, why not instead draw attention to all God has given us and be thankful and joyful about it? This is about building firm foundations. Your house might be perfect or it might be a work in progress, but you have a safe place called home where you know you belong and where strong relationships can be built. Stable buildings need firm foundations and it’s up to us to remember what really matters most in our homes and then build on that. What are our values? How do we enjoy in this space? How can we best express our memories and passions here?
Protect what is precious
For any building, we take out insurance in case our belongings are damaged, lost or stolen. But our most precious possessions are not material. Our home is a place where love can flourish, forgiveness can be practiced and honesty can be shared. These vital values need to be protected. Just as we deliberately keep out physical danger, so we should intentionally close the door on division, bitterness and selfishness. Pray that kindness will guard the threshold into your home. Declare that transparency will shine through the windows of your family. Believe that fruitfulness will abound on your land.
Your values and your traditions will not accidentally emerge; they will be created through intention and remain safe through protection. Sadly, through the busyness of life and various competing agendas, other influences will constantly try and invade our space and the enemy will attempt to steal all we hold dear. God has given us all we need to protect our territory; what do we need to do to ensure that His love remains at the heart of our home? Are we sufficiently spiritually insured against the loss of what matters most?
Extend where necessary
Somebody said that it’s not how many bedrooms you have, but how you use them that matters. Now, while constant striving for a larger house is futile (everybody always needs just one more room), I do think this person had a point. I know people with huge houses and small apartments who demonstrate equally incredible and sacrificial hospitality. And I know others who don’t. We can all extend ourselves and replicate our values by offering a grace space to others. Our homes can be a light into our community and our relationships. It doesn’t have to be a lot of work – my preferred option is holding pudding parties where other people bring the puds! We provide the table and a place to grow deep-rooted relationships. Could you invite others to share what you are building? Why not welcome them into your mistakes as well as your success? Allow your children (if you have them) to invite friends, make mess and eat pizza.
Proverbs 24:3–4 says ‘By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.’ What a blessing it is that as we dwell together, God dwells in the midst of us, enabling us to build a rich and significant place called home. There really is no place like it.
Cathy is the author of Digging for Diamonds and speaks at events, churches and organisations across the UK including tours with Care for the Family. She also writes for Liberti magazine and for CWR and is part of the Spring Harvest Planning Group. She is mum to two teenage girls, wife to Mark (a church leader) and leads worship at church. She loves communicating creatively and connecting with people.
Today I’m excited to welcome Gayl Wright to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series. I’ve come to know Gayl online, and so enjoy her graceful encouragement and wisdom. She shares about the meaning of home through her family life – having raised seven children, which boggles my mind! I love the rootedness of her life and the way family traditions emerged over the years.
Home is many things to many people. Some consider home to be the place where they live or the place where they were born. I have lived in so many places that it would be hard to pick one to call home. To me, home is wherever I happen to be living at a particular time.
Home is also a place where people live together as they learn to share, to work out differences, to develop skills and more. It’s a place where stories begin and memories are made. In my case it first began with my parents and then my brothers as they came along. When I married, home was wherever my husband and I found ourselves.
As our family grew the home included seven children, although my oldest was twenty when the youngest was born. At that time our four daughters were 20, 18, 14, and 12. My sons were 6, 3, and a newborn. When our baby boy was four months old we left our home in NJ and moved to SC. That was over 18 years ago! Most all have left home now to find their place in the world.
We tried to establish a few traditions, one of which was praying and reading the Bible together. We also enjoyed tea and reading time. I began reading to the girls every afternoon while they would draw or color pictures. We continued as the boys were born, although sometimes it was a challenge with toddlers and babies, but we did it!
Part of the reading was for our homeschooling, but we also chose fun books and adventure stories. A lot of the books we read were by British authors and we fell in love with the idea of tea time. I’m not sure exactly when we started the everyday tea, but it quickly became a tradition carried on even as my children became adults.
Because we liked reading so much we began including my husband in the evenings when he would read aloud to us. The Chronicles of Narnia, the Little House books, the Lord of the Rings, Anne of Green Gables and the Swallows and Amazons series were a few of the many we enjoyed. We then branched out to such authors as G.K. Chesterton, Howard Pyle, P.G. Wodehouse, and others.
My children had big imaginations and were always making up plays or acting out stories, many of which were inspired by the books we read. A treasured discovery was a book written and illustrated by J.R.R. Tolkien that started out as letters to his children from Father Christmas. It has appeal to children and adults alike and quickly became a favorite of our family to read in the days leading up to Christmas.
When I was growing up we did not celebrate Advent and I didn’t really know much about it until my husband and I had been married for awhile. As we learned about it we decided to make that a tradition. We would make or buy a wreath every year and position candles around it, lighting one each Sunday of Advent as we read from various sources.
One year, our family learned and sang together the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah. We had a keyboard that could be set for a pipe organ, so I played the music which was recorded onto the keyboard. My husband, daughters and I learned the different parts and then shared it in church and with friends and family. One night while practicing in the car on the way home from visiting friends, our two-year-old surprised us by joining in!
Most of our days were not spent doing anything extraordinary, at least it didn’t seem that way to us. We enjoyed learning and doing things together. When I look back over my old journals I see that we did a lot of reading, singing, baking, playing, walking, talking, welcoming people into our home, and for the most part everyone got along well.
Of course we had our times of sibling rivalry, disagreements with Mom and Dad, arguments among ourselves, and other hard times. I know we did not always handle those things well, but our children knew we loved each other and we loved them. I think they felt secure in that.
Nowadays our home consists of my husband, myself and our oldest son, who battles muscular dystrophy and uses a wheelchair most of the time. It’s a challenge, but we are working on finding ways to make things easier for him. The three of us still spend time reading together almost daily. We also have chickens, two dogs and a cat who all live outside.
As Christmas quickly approaches we are once again lighting the candles around the Advent wreath continuing with a tradition started many years ago. The difference is that there are only three of us living here now, but the memories linger on, all contributing to making our house a home.
We always enjoy it when our other children and our grandchildren come to visit. It’s been awhile since we’ve had everyone at once as they live in various places and have different work and school schedules. At this point there are 26 of us, but the boys aren’t married yet…
Our home is always open for visitors. We love to share our beautiful views and from scratch home cooked food. One of the favorites is face pancakes. I’ve been told my pancakes are the best!
Come on over, make yourself at home and you’ll be treated like family.
Gayl Wright makes her home in upstate South Carolina. She is a seeker of truth who looks for beauty in ordinary things. A self-taught poet, photographer and artist, she loves to capture what she finds using her talents to encourage others and glorify God.
I got to know Rachel Hauck through social media after reading and loving her books – yes, I was one of those fan stalker types. She’s an amazing novelist who creates worlds you just don’t want to leave, whether in the sultry South of America or in Hessenberg, her fictional-but-real Kingdom. But her books aren’t mere escapism; they uplift and encourage with messages of hope based in her Christian faith. Rachel, as you’ll see in this engaging blog, has a huge heart, and I’m so thrilled she joins us today. (And if you’re not familiar with Cheetos – huge loss, in my view – they are a wonderful cheesy-but-crunchy snack food.)
Thanks Amy for having me on your blog! I love your book Finding Myself In Britain and how you’ve made “home” in the UK.
Home is a precious word. It’s defined by so many things. The cliché, “Home is where your heart is,” rings true to me. And it’s a cliché because it’s true.
As a kid, my family moved around a few times but even when we were in a new place, we were home. Because my parents made home a place of peace and rest.
When we moved, Dad, Mom, my brothers and sister were with me. The same argument I had with my older brother in Kentucky was the same argument I had with him in Florida. Even those bumpy moments are part of constructing home in our hearts, right. They are intense at the time but later we laugh at them. Hopefully.
My parents were good at setting the tone of our home. I love lighting and my mom always had this balance of warm light. It was more than light, it was the emotion of the home.
Me as a baby with my older brother! We loved potato chips!
Our home was welcoming. Never once did I dread going inside. I learned to be content in the place where I loved and was loved.
Off to college, I carried that sentiment with me. Living in a large sorority house part of the time, I found “home” with my friends, with my roommate, with the common bond of college sisterhood. We laughed. A lot. Laughter is a key component of “home” in my mind.
My dad with two of his brothers in 1980! Back in the day! My grandmother had a home in the Shawnee State Forest in southern Ohio. What memories we all have of that place! Dig my Uncle Dave’s plaid pants!
After college, I hit the road with my professional job. Home became a shared house in central Florida with a co-worker. But home also became the hotels I lived in 70 percent of the year.
I brought home with me in my heart. All the things I loved about “home” growing up and in college. Even ordering a pizza and watching a sitcom alone in my hotel room was “home” to me. Or sharing the evening with one of my co-workers.
Home also meant exploring my surroundings, discovering the community I was launched into for one, two or three weeks.
Upstate New York reminded me of my grandparent’s home in Ohio. A snowfall took me back to my childhood, to playing in the cold snow only to run home to a warm cozy place with soup on the stove.
Again with my older brother. Probably the ’90s. Clowning around at his home. It’s blurry but so defines our relationship!
Australia taught me people are the same all over the world. We want to raise our families in a good, safe place. Have a good job and good friends.
Venezuela allowed me to use all my years of high school and college Spanish! But in some places, it reminded me of south Florida where I’d lived in my early teens.
All the while, each place, each trip, each house I visited wrote the story of “home” on my heart.
One year my company sent me to Ireland two weeks before Thanksgiving. I was sure to be home in plenty of time to share the holiday with my family. As the weekend rolled around, my boss called to tell me I was not leaving and had to stay a few more days. Not the news I wanted to hear. I wanted to see my family, sure, but there might have been a guy I wanted to see more. (Wink!)
That evening, our Irish distributor, a kind, fatherly man, invited me to his home for Friday night fish and chips. Their home was cozy and welcoming — just like my parents home! — and we watched a movie and laughed, told stories. That night refreshed me for the for the days ahead and eased my disappointment of “life interrupted.” And, I still made it home in time for Thanksgiving. And yep, I saw my guy.
I love this one! My parents sitting out on the back deck one summer evening after dinner. They built the house. 🙂 Love their matching plaid shirts! This is probably the middle ’80s. But this shows so much who they are and the kind of home they made.
I married that guy a couple of years later and all those “home” moments helped me create my own atmosphere when we set up house together. I wanted a place people could come and just be. “Take your hat off and stay awhile.”
When my youngest brother married, we had the whole family at the house one afternoon and my young nephews were running around with Cheeto fingers. You know, orange and sticky from eating out of the Cheeto bag.
It was no skin off my nose because what’s the use in getting upset when anything they trashed could be cleaned? And why care more about my stuff than my nephews?
Later, my middle brother commented, “You didn’t get riled by them getting Cheetos crumbs all over the place. You just rolled with it. Not many people would do that.”
I want people to feel at home! Now, come on, I wouldn’t let the boys purposefully trash the place but they were just having fun, laughing, being… boys. At Aunt Rachel’s house. Do you know they make paint now that is easy to clean? I could clean Cheeto finger prints from the wall easily enough. But I could not change their memory of me if I’d yelled at them.
My nieces and nephew. He was one of the “Cheeto” culprits! He’s in college now!
All of these moments and events go into the stories I write. My own growing up experiences with my parents and siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. My life as a sorority girl on a large university campus. My days living on the road in hotels and out of suitcases, making friends with those I met along the way.
When I sit down to create a world, like Brighton Kingdom and the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg in the Royal Wedding Series, I remember Ireland, or Australia. Or the six hours I was in London on my way to Israel.
When I create characters, the memories of the people I’ve met over the last 30 years, begin to form faces and voices in my head. Just one thing, or one event remembered can help me define a character.
I think home is a slice of heaven on earth. The place where one can just “be.”
Christmas in 2013 with my husband, one of our “adopted daughters” and our sweet dog Lola. I like to say home and family is whoever fits into your heart!
I know not every home is peaceful, safe or comfortable. We all have varied memories of our childhood homes. Or our married homes. My husband often comments he must have grown up in a different house than is sister. They have such different perspectives.
But our experiences, good or bad, can be stored safely away in the heart of Jesus who makes all things new. He is home to us all. Peace. Safely. Comfort.
That’s why I try to write a little bit of Jesus into my stories. Because no matter what worlds and characters I create, Jesus is the “home” in the midst of it all.
Rachel Hauck is a USA Today best-selling and award-winning author. Her latest novel, The Wedding Chapel, was named to Booklist 2015 Top Ten Inspirational Novels.
A graduate of Ohio State University with a degree in journalism, Rachel worked in the corporate software world before planting her backside in an uncomfortable chair to write full-time in 2004. She serves on the Executive Board for American Christian Fiction Writers and leads worship at their annual conference. She is a mentor and book therapist at My Book Therapy, and conference speaker.
Rachel lives in central Florida with her husband and pets, and writes from her two-story tower in an exceedingly more comfy chair. She is a huge Buckeyes football fan.
I first heard of Katie Swartz from my then-fiancé who said excitedly, “A North American couple is joining Ridley, coming over on the QE2!” They arrived in Cambridge, where Nicholas was studying to become a vicar, a few months before we got married and I moved there as well. Life was new and different for us all, and Katie and I didn’t get to know each other terribly well – as she said in a joint interview for Woman Alive, she was “working four jobs and then pregnant and terribly nauseous.” She and her husband went on to have four more children after their first was born in Cambridge, when they lived in a flat with a narrow, round staircase separating the bedroom from the loo (a nightmare for a pregnant woman). Since then, the family has lived in the UK and back in the States and now in the UK again, and Katie all the while has been writing loads of wonderful novels. I love her Tales from Goswell series, the first of which, The Vicar’s Wife, intertwines a modern-day American-moved-to-England with a Victorian vicar’s wife.
Her addition to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series had me in tears.
After Amy asked me to contribute to her blog, I have been reflecting on what home means to me, and I realized that it has changed over the last few months. A little over four years ago my husband and I, along with our four children, moved from New York City to a small village in England’s Lake District, and what I felt was my ideal home: a two-hundred-year-old vicarage with eight bedrooms and plenty of space to practice Christian hospitality, a walled garden perfect for the vegetable plot I’d been longing for, and a warm and friendly village community I was eager to be a part of. I truly felt I’d come home.
St Bees in Cumbria, the Swartz’s home for four years.
For four years we enjoyed that home, entertaining often, planting a garden, and becoming valued members of our community. Looking back, I wonder if I was a bit smug about it all—I had everything I’d wanted. Then, quite suddenly, the school where my husband served as chaplain closed, his position was cut, and we were forced to move in a matter of months. That perfect home was taken away from us—making me reassess what really comprises a home.
We now live in rented accommodation in a village where I am slowly getting to know the residents, and my husband has a new job as a teacher—one he is very thankful for, but not the kind of position he ever expected to have. Everything feels very temporary and fragile—made more so by the fact that as the same time as all of this was happening, my dear father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He is now in its last stages.
This all might sound rather grim, but there is a magnificent silver lining to it—and that is, as a Christian, I realize now more than ever that home is not a beautiful vicarage or a temporary house or even the prospect of having your family all around you, as we will this Christmas, my father’s last. For the Christian, home is heaven.
It hasn’t been easy to give up the things I have enjoyed and desired—the lovely house, the cooking range we saved up for, the walled garden I spent many hours on. Beyond those material things, I have missed the community we were part of and the church where we served. I dislike having my life feel temporary and uncertain, and yet it has all been such a valuable lesson to me, because isn’t all of life uncertain?
The Bible tells us this world is fleeting. Over the last few months I have been reminded of the parable of the rich fool who stored his crops in big barns, only to have his life taken away from him that very night, and I have wondered if I had been doing the same.
In the Western world it is so easy and tempting to yearn after material goods. For the Christian this might not be a flashy sports car or something similar, but merely a comfortable home, a place to raise your family and offer hospitality—none of those are bad things to desire. But I am constantly asking myself: where is my heart? Where is my hope?
Katharine’s parents.
As my world has crumbled and changed, I have the deep and abiding joy that it is with Christ, in heaven, where God promises: ‘Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’ (Revelation 7:16-17)
This Christmas, as you enjoy the many blessings of the season that God has granted you, I encourage you to reflect on the true meaning of Advent in looking forward to Christ’s return, and the hope of heaven that believers may all hold onto now.
After spending three years as a diehard New Yorker, and four years in the Lake District, Katharine Swartz now lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, their five children, and a golden retriever. She writes women’s fiction as well as contemporary romance under the name Kate Hewitt, and whatever the genre she enjoys delivering a compelling and intensely emotional story. Her latest is The Lost Garden.
When I look back at growing up in Minnesota, I think of the BLTs my mom made me for breakfast, or the chicken-noodle soup we’d have for Christmas Eve (which I still make – recipe in Finding Myself in Britain), or Iowa-fried chicken cooked in my grandma’s cast-iron pan, or my mom’s cinnamon rolls and homemade rye bread (yep, recipes for those too in the book). They call macaroni and cheese “comfort food” for a reason.
Photo: cyclonebill, Flickr
I knew that food plays an important role in memory and emotions (comfort eating, anyone?), but recently I was taken aback by just how powerful is the absence of loved and familiar foods for people away from their country of origin. I realized this when I raised a question in several Facebook groups for American ex-pats in the UK, having come in contact with one of the key buyers of the American food section at a massive grocery chain. Intrigued with the idea of influencing this chain and their selection American products, I posted these questions to my fellow expats: “What foods do you miss? What do you wish this grocery-store chain would stock?”
I posted and left for my gym class, and when I came back a couple of hours later I was stunned at the rapid response. In that short amount of time, one group had 92 replies; another had 48; another 32. I clearly had hit a nerve.
I loved scrolling down the comments, for some foods that others hankered after I forgot about, such as pizza rolls. Other entries I could understand the draw of, although they didn’t apply to me, such as coffee creamer (I don’t drink coffee). Some items kept popping up again and again, such as real dill pickles (no sugar added, please) and real bacon (streaky, that is).
Real pickles don’t have sugar. Photo: Maggie Mudd, Flickr
I saw lots of cracker type longings: graham crackers (digestive biscuits just aren’t the same), saltine crackers, Cheez-its, Wheat Thins, Goldfish, and especially Triscuits, as evidenced by this comment: “For the love of all that is holy, they have one-thousand types of ‘cracker’-type products, but nothing I have found that approaches the taste or texture of a TRISCUIT.” Amen.
The mighty Triscuit. Photo: Yasmeen, flickr
And Velveeta and Kraft macaroni and cheese (which many supermarkets stock, but at 3 quid a pop I can’t justify it – the equivalent to 5 bucks a box, which only costs a dollar Stateside) and Old Bay seasoning and Jiffy cornbread mix and Cool Whip and Miracle Whip and Eggo waffles (PyelotBoy heartily agrees) and, again and again, Hidden Valley ranch packets.
A British person reading this list might think, huh? That sounds like a lot of processed food – why would they miss it? But we do. These foods scream memories or convenience or form the missing ingredient in a favorite recipe (Fritos for Frito pie, anyone?). Food can signify home to us because of the people we’ve eaten our feasts with; the memories we’ve created; the conversation, love, and sense of knowing and being known.
Kashi! Photo: Heidi Smith, flickr
For many years, I brought back boxes of Kashi GoLean Crunch, a cereal filled with protein and that satisfying tooth-filling-defying crunch. I think one summer I brought back 22 bags of the stuff, hoarding it in the cupboard under the stairs, grudgingly sharing it with my children. I even made five of my high-school friends bring a couple of bags with them as their “payment” for staying at the vicarage, calling them my Kashi mules. But eventually I tired of it, switching my allegiance to oatmeal (UK: porridge) with a dollop of almond butter to make it rich and nutty. Yet recently, I was cleaning out that cupboard under the stairs and I came upon a crusty old bag of that Kashi GoLean Crunch. How I would have loved it years previously when it was fresh, but now all it was suitable for was the trash.
So what foods would you bring back in a suitcase if you lived away from your country of origin? What screams home to you?
I met Simon Lawton when he and his wife Julia invited me to come speak to women at their amazing church in Newcastle last spring. Their church was growing and a Bingo hall was declining, so they swapped premises – fantastic! I love their vision for reaching their community with the good news of Jesus.
Home is where the heart is and where we belong. But what happens if, as you grow up, you don’t really have that sense of belonging. I was adopted into a Christian home and spent my early years feeling like I didn’t belong. I felt disconnected from my parents and my siblings through no fault of theirs. I had an itch that I couldn’t adequately scratch and a sense that there was a home and a family elsewhere.
When I was 16 I received limited information from my adopted parents concerning my background. I had always felt like there was something missing from my life. I wanted to know, like most adopted children, where I’d come from and where my roots were. I discovered that my biological mother was from the very town that I had grown up in (Leicester) and that my father was from Omaha, Nebraska. He was an US Airforce engineer based in Leicestershire during the early 60s. At the time I was simply happy to rest in this knowledge and get on with my life.
I decided in 1989 that it was time I found my biological mother and this we achieved with the help of social services. It was an incredibly emotional moment when I met her for the first time. I’d found my own flesh and blood and also someone whom I discovered had the same interests as me. I felt like for the first time that I belonged.
It was not until 2001 that God clearly directed me to look for my father. I had been thinking about it for some years and had a deep longing in my heart to find him. I was at a pastor’s conference in Toronto and received an incredibly accurate personal prophecy, part of which emphasised how important it was for me to know who my father was. Amazing!
On my return home I started searching on the internet and within a few weeks I was calling this guy whom I thought was my Dad on the phone. What do you say to this man thousands of miles away when he answers his phone? I simply said, ‘Were you at Bruntingthorpe airbase in Leicestershire in the early 1960’s?’ He replied ‘Yes’ and I paused for a moment and then said, ‘I think I’m your son!’ He was absolutely delighted and told me he had always thought there was someone out there.
In that moment I discovered a whole family, including two great half brothers, in the USA that I had no idea existed previously. I finally felt that I belonged and had a home. They are wonderful people and when Julia and I visited the USA for the first time they threw the most fantastic party in Omaha for us. I felt like the prodigal son returning home. They remain very special to me and we very much keep in touch.
Whilst in Omaha I discovered lots of information on my new family. My great grandparents are of Syrian descent from a place called Beth Latiya. I later discovered that it is the headquarters for the terrorist organisation Hamas! Wow! Further, I also discovered that my ancestors had been immigrants through Ellis Island and that whilst those US immigration guys changed the spelling of my family name to ‘Koory,’ the original name was spelt ‘Khouri.’ I was stunned to also discover that in Syrian the name ‘Khouri’ means ‘priest!’
This knowledge simply blew me away….to think that one of my early ancestors was a priest and here I was hundreds of years later, serving God as a priest (pastor). I was even more amazed to discover from the Syrian family historian that the family tree goes back to Solomon. Incredible!
God has been so gracious to me. He created me in my mother’s womb and set me in a wonderful Christian home where I was able to find Christ for myself and have that sense of belonging. He allowed me the privilege of discovering my family background and then he allowed me the even greater privilege of serving Him in His home – the church. I remain completely in His debt.
“Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young— a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God.” (Psalm 84:3)
The Dream Centre, where Simon is a pastor. I love the story how their church swapped places with a dying bingo hall in Newcastle. Hooray for God’s message of love and grace!
Simon Lawton was born and bred in Leicester. He left school at 16 and worked in retailing until God called him into ministry in 1985. He’s an adopted Geordie, Pastor, Husband, Father, Grandpa and Leicester City fan. He’s currently writing his first book and blogs regularly.
Today’s installment in the “There’s No Place Like Home” series is Debbie Duncan, lovely author I had the privilege of working with at Authentic Media with the release of her co-authored book Life Lines, a brilliant fictionalized-but-based-in-reality look at friendship. She’s a minister’s wife and nurse who has taught at the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing, King’s College London. She and Malcolm have four teenage children and live in Buckinghamshire, UK.
Am I a turtle without his shell?
We have a natural affinity to the past; something captivates us when we hear where are from or when we learn about our ancestors. Certainly the television programme, “Who do you think you are” has been a huge success, facilitating an increase in people looking into their own genealogy. I have managed to get back to 1600 in my family tree, uncovering a pirate called Foxy Ned, a lady of the manor who ran off with the groomsman and a diamond scandal. My family have many roots in many countries and I cannot on good authority say where I am from, although I do claim to be Scottish as Scotland is where I spent my formative years. Home, however, is a different matter.
Home is where I feel safe, surrounded by those I love. At the moment we are based in Buckinghamshire, having lived in the same house for more than five years, which is a record for us. Three of my children are presently away from home at university. When my oldest daughter, Anna, went, she had a box of decorations for her room. It was really important to her that this box was packed and went with her. In fact she packed it before she packed any clothes or books. On her first evening in her new halls the box was un-packed and she strung up her lights and hung up her photos.
Susan Clayton, an environmental psychologist says, “For many people, their home is part of their self-definition.” They have bought in to this concept of home, paying for a mortgage or spending money renovating and decorating buildings. Walls are covered with photos and pictures of where we have been and shelves are covered with souvenirs from past adventures. I have to confess I have the odd smattering of tartan throughout the house.
“Where are you from” is an important question but “where do you call home?” should be the question we ask. And if we think that “home is where the heart is” then home is where we are right now. For the moment for us that’s in Chalfont St Peter, where I have come to love the community. For instance, when we experienced tragic loss earlier this year I had a strong desire to stay at home – I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to feel safe and secure surrounded by people I know.
I am made even more aware of how much I value this place I call home as I have been involved in a pilot project in a nearby town as an outreach nurse for the homeless. They live in a hostel where they are supported by a variety of care givers and staff. They may not have a physical space that they have decorated but they have a place of safety where people care for them. Some of the clients have talked about how they feel exposed not having their own place – a little like a turtle without his shell.
The Duncans
As Christians our natural trajectory should be towards our real home. This place I live in is a temporary measure but like a turtle without a shell maybe this keeps me focused, awaiting the day when I am made whole and complete. The money I spend on my surroundings means where I live looks comfortable and may reflect some of my identity but that is only truly revealed when I am in my real home.
Home is where we are right now, but for those who believe in Jesus it is also only a temporary state. I am not defined by the pirates and diamond dealers of my past or whether I am English or Scottish. I am defined by being part of God’s kingdom, heading towards my final destination of my real home.
Reepicheep, the valiant talking mouse in CS Lewis’ book The Last Battle, stood on the shore at the end of the story and said, “I have come home at last! This is my real country. I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life.” He may not have been a turtle, but he found his shell.
“There’s no place like home” – even for expats like me and Adrianne Fitzpatrick, whom I’m pleased to introduce today. Adrianne is a writer and publisher of Books to Treasure, a small independent press producing quality children’s literature, whom I met through the Association of Christian Writers. I love her passion and commitment to all things books. Her contribution to our series on finding home struck a chord in me, for I too cling to the identity of the land of my birth.
When I was four years old, my parents decided to move from New Zealand to Australia (the land of my father’s birth). Even at that tender age, the prospect devastated me. I was, apparently, in love with a boy who was all of six or seven, and I begged him to ask his mother if I could live them instead! Alas, it was not to be; and a few weeks shy of my fifth birthday, I found myself on foreign soil. I was not impressed. To add insult to injury, in New Zealand I would have started school on my birthday (which was in June). In Australia I was required to wait until the following January, when the new academic year began. This was not a good beginning!
Adrianne in 1994 rediscovering her New Zealand roots.
I clung desperately to my New Zealand heritage as I grew up. When I felt Australian pronunciations beginning to impinge on the way I talked, I would ask my mother how to say things the New Zealand way. I steadfastly refused to become Australian. As an adult I would still claim my NZ birthright even while acknowledging my Australian upbringing with its cultural influences. Yet despite all that, I never felt any urge to return to New Zealand, even when I was old enough to make that choice. In spite of myself, Australia had become home.
I moved around so much, both as a child and later as wife to a minister, that I became adept at feeling at home wherever I was. (In fifty-odd years I’ve moved thirty-two times. I’ve been in my current house for six and a half years. That’s a record for me!) One thing that struck me after I became a Christian in my teens was the feeling of community that greeted me whenever I went to a new church, whether as part of the ministry team or as a visitor on holiday. One would expect that in your home church, but for me it was always a welcome surprise – and eventually something to look forward to – when going somewhere new. It gave me a sense of continuity, a sense of home, that I appreciated in the midst of so much change and uncertainty.
Back in Australia – Blue Mountains
However, I can’t blame all the moves in my life on other people, because I was the one who chose to come to the UK. I grew up on a diet of British books and, to a lesser extent, British television. My mother’s family are British, with my English grandfather being seconded to the New Zealand navy after the First World War. My great-grandfather, so family history goes, was a shepherd at Stonehenge. I had a longing to see this country, although I never expected to live here. Yet when I arrived here in 2003, I knew immediately that I had come home.
Finding beauty in the UK – Tintern Abbey
Twelve years later I can still say that the UK is the home of my heart. That’s not to say life has been without its challenges: family, health, finances, even friendships have all suffered at various points. But there has also been healing, restoration and reconciliation on emotional, physical and spiritual levels. God has truly brought me home – at least until he calls me to my permanent home.
At the impressionable age of 7 I watched as my home was torn apart first by divorce and then a custody battle. My safe, secure, stable and loving home changed dynamics and then location completely.
Tania Vaughan is a speaker and writer who started Let’s Talk About Ministries at www.liveloveshare.com after writing her book Let’s Talk About Sex and Relationships – A Bible study for single women. Through Bible teaching and devotionals Tania seeks to encourage every woman to claim the full life that Jesus came to give them. www.taniavaughan.com
No place like home.
Our home is always open for visitors. We love to share our beautiful views and from scratch home cooked food. One of the favorites is face pancakes. I’ve been told my pancakes are the best!
