Amy Boucher Pye

Tag: There’s No Place Like Home

The Face of Home by Alex Ward

I dare you to read today’s contribution to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series without tears streaming down your face. I can’t do it – every time I read Alex’s words, they strike the inside of me. Maybe because so much of our story is similar, and that I too have had to deal with resentment and bitterness over what is home – and especially what is the home of my children. I’m so glad to introduce Alex to you today, for she was part of an answer to prayer back when I first moved to the UK and was friendless. Grab a cup, or glass, of tea (hot or iced) as she shares her search for home.

My husband and I are both from Fife but moved away from Scotland 18 years ago. The moving part was a conscious decision, but the away part wasn’t. Incrementally we have moved further and further, with addresses in England, The Netherlands, Hungary, and now Texas in the USA. The initial move was a result of my husband accepting a job in Surrey; subsequent moves were internal to the company he works with – a mark of a successful career, but with ripple effects for ourselves and our families.

The view from home in Aberdour.

Oddly, despite having lived in five different countries in less than two decades, it was only a year ago that I started having a crisis about what I actually called “home”. At that point we had been living in America for more than a year, and had drawn the conclusion that it made sense to buy a house here in Texas. I was on board at a practical level, but was struggling emotionally and had at least one meltdown during a telephone conversation with my poor, bemused husband.

On reflection, previous moves had never seemed particularly permanent. Even in The Netherlands, where we lived nearly nine years, our expectation had been to be there for two, and the staying was a gradual acceptance. Buying a house in Texas felt like a sudden and huge commitment, not helped by the fact it is so far away from Scotland, with family, a cooler climate and a beautiful landscape beckoning.

It also felt like a betrayal to my parents who had endured a hard six months, during my step-dad being in hospital and the ensuing recovery of illness and being effectively institutionalised. Ironically, I had just completed a Master’s in Gerontology and yet I wasn’t available to support my own family. Failing health also meant they wouldn’t be able to make the journey to visit our new house – in my mind a key requisite of giving it a feeling of home.

The final straw was having to come to an acceptance that this would likely be the last childhood home for our boys, in a place where everything except (and perhaps even) the language is surprisingly alien. As far as the boys were concerned, America, with football (sic), sunshine, swimming, Chick-fil-a, tennis and music every day at school, was exactly the place to spend their childhood days.

The view from home in Flower Mound.

At the time my emotions were running high, I was taking part in the first semester of the Life With God (LWG) study with a small group from my church. The study aims to encourage participants to deepen in relationship with God, through personal reflection and group discussion. Participants are challenged to apply biblical knowledge to the heart and soul, and we had reached a point in the study where we were considering Cain and his essential refusal of God’s intervention regarding anger and bitterness (Genesis 4:6,7).

Working through my own personal resentments and disappointments in light of the study, I reached two very clear conclusions. As far as my immediate family were concerned, the only factor that would hold everyone back from settling with Texas as their home would be my reluctance, and even bitterness. As far as God was concerned, I was displaying a lack of faith that, having brought me thus far with many blessings and life lessons on the way, God would continue to work His purpose in my life.

I gradually began to accept Texas would be home for at least the time being, and to take each day as it came. Very soon after all my soul-searching, we found a house that ticked much of our wishlist and, as the months have gone by and neighbours have become friends, it has met wishes and needs we weren’t even aware we had. Thanks to Skype and Facetime, family members unable to travel have become familiar with our surroundings, and my step-dad even presented us with a beautiful water colour of the house, based on photographs.

New Texan home by Alexander Harper (aka Opa).

The boys are incredibly adaptable, doubtless thanks to their international experience, and they have always settled quickly. However, my husband and I, a little more set in our ways perhaps, have been astonished at how settled we have felt in this particular house. The house and its environs are very different from anything we grew up in, but they have quickly become familiar. We both feel we can breathe a sense of relief every time we turn into the estate and approach the house. And it feels right to call it home.

We try to return to Scotland every year and did so last month. Having pondered long and hard over what home means, my senses this visit were sharpened to the sheer beauty and preciousness of the place and the people associated with Aberdour. Despite my current address quickly establishing its place as home in my heart, the village of my childhood, Aberdour, also continues to lay its claim to the title.

If you ask for tea in either of the places I call home, the presentation will be very different!

On our return to America, two opinions were aired about what we should call home. My son was gently admonished by my uncle for referring to Texas as “home”, rather than Scotland; at Dallas airport, I asked an official which line (queue!) we should take for customs now we have a green card, and his reply: “don’t worry, you’re home now”. Two claims to what we might consider home, at either end of a long journey – both valid. Until another corporate decision shakes us up again, my heart is at rest.

“…if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast.” (Psalm 139:9,10)

Alex Ward is a Scot currently living in Flower Mound, Texas, with her husband and two sons, both born in The Netherlands. She has recently completed a Masters in Gerontology (distance learning with Southampton University) and is contemplating how to make use of it now her boys’ days are filled with their own activities. She likes a good cup, or glass, of tea.

July 29, 2016
The Changing Face of Home by Fiona Lloyd

If home means people, then what happens when children grow up and move out? This is a question Fiona Lloyd poses movingly – a question that hits me square between the eyes as I try to stay present in the moments of our lives, with our kids still at home. I read Fiona’s blog and jump ahead a few years in my mind, hopeful and determined to not miss the fleeting moments. Her post is not just for parents, of course. It’s for anyone who wants to consider what home is right here, right now.

Someone pointed out yesterday that it’s just over five months to Christmas. I reckon that gives me a good four-and-a-half months until I need to start thinking about it…but it’s a good excuse to show a picture of one of my favourite presents, anyway.

When our children were small, we had a delightful elderly lady in our church who used to come and spend Christmas Day with us. Her name was Dorothy, and she came every year for about 10 years. For Dorothy, the highlight of her Christmas was watching the children opening their presents: I suspect she was often even more giddy than they were. So every year, my husband would pick Dorothy up at eight in the morning and bring her back to our house in time for the grand opening ceremony.

To prevent the children from exploding with excitement while they waited, we got into the habit of giving each of them a stocking full of small goodies to be opened in our bedroom at some unearthly hour on Christmas morning. (Eventually we trained them to bring us a cup of tea first.) Then one year, they bounced in not only with their own stockings, but with an extra one they’d made especially for us, complete with chocolates and the present shown on the left. It’s one of my most precious Christmas memories; not just because of the gift, but because of the love (and the plotting and planning) that went into it.

When I think of home, my mind automatically drifts to incidents such as these: times when we celebrated being family together, with nothing else to distract us. These are my warm fuzzy moments, the ones that generate a sense of security and well-being, and make me feel I belong. In the idealised, rose-tinted world portrayed by the media, home consists of cosy family gatherings, preferably in a pristine house with perfectly coordinated soft furnishings.

The difficulty with real life is that it moves on. My children have grown up, almost without my noticing. As I write, my youngest is travelling round Europe with her friends, while her sister is packing up ahead of a two-month trip to Australia. My son and his wife are happily settled in another city, a good hour’s drive from where we live. They’re all busy building their own lives – which is as it should be – but it’s left me wondering what home means. If I cling to distant memories and expectations that are now well past their sell-by-date, I’ll end up disappointed and isolated. I’m someone who prefers certainty and structure in my world, and yet I’m realising that my definition of home has to be flexible in order to survive.

I’m fiercely proud of my Yorkshire roots. I’m also fortunate enough to live in a comfortable house which is conveniently situated on the edge of a large city, yet only 20 minutes away from idyllic scenery. For me, however, home is no longer simply a matter of geography. As I get older, I’m discovering that home is less and less about the externals and much more about how I am inside. The places where I’m most at home are those where I feel accepted for who I am, and where I don’t have to earn approval by pretending to be a different – and somewhat sanitised – version of myself.

The drive at Scargill House.

I find I am settled and at peace with those who take time to show an interest in how I really am, and who offer me words of affirmation and appreciation. I think of family friends in Whitby who are always willing to extend their dining table to seat an extra couple of visitors, or Scargill House, where there’s a seemingly infinite supply of coffee and friendly greetings.

This realisation has also liberated my attempts to reach out to other people. Rather than worrying about the depth of the dust on my mantelpiece or panicking about whether my cooking skills are up to scratch, I can help others to feel at ease by offering words of encouragement and welcome. For me, home is not about a specific location, or even spending time with a particular group of people: it’s about being affirmed for who I am, and learning to extend that same sense of affirmation to those around me.

Fiona Lloyd lives in Leeds with her husband, where she pretends not to mind that her three children have grown up and are moving on. She spends her working days teaching violin in local schools, and her spare time doing as much writing as she can get away with. She worships at her local Baptist church, and is a member of the worship-leading team. Fiona blogs at fjlloyd.wordpress.com, and you can find her on Twitter at @FionaJLloyd. She is vice-chair of the Association of Christian Writers.

July 15, 2016
We Are Family by James Prescott

With such horrible things going on in the States this week—with Philando Castile being shot just 10 miles from where I grew up—I wondered about posting the next installment of my “There’s No Place Like Home” series. But James Prescott puts it so well, about how home should be a place where we feel love and accepted, and where we extend that love and acceptance to others. As we make our homes places of love, may we also extend that same love in the public square as we search for justice for the atrocities we see committed.

Coming home. As I sat down to reflect on what ‘home’ means to me in writing this blog, I have to admit, I was staggered at my lack of any instinctive reaction. And then it came to me. Family.

Home is probably more than physical, but also more than spiritual, more than emotional or intellectual. It’s wherever you feel you belong. It’s where you can be you, without fear, without judgement or condemnation. It’s more than a place, it’s a space. A space where you can be you, and that’s enough.

Much like what healthy family should always be. And I’m fortunate to have experienced this in my life in so many beautiful ways.

First of all, with my family of birth. Whenever I am with my sister, her partner and my Dad, I don’t feel afraid. I feel loved and above all completely understood. They’ve known me longer and better than anyone else in my life. I know, I’m very lucky in this respect. Not everyone’s families of birth are so close, so connected, and so non-judgemental.

I say, families of birth, because, in truth, wherever our home is, whoever our home is, that’s our family. In my church we often describe ourselves as a ‘church family’, because that’s what we are, it’s how we act. As family.

How often do you see big communities – church communities, online communities, even audiences at big events, all come together as one, helping each other, joking with each other, loving each other. When we find a major thing in common, a common love, a common purpose, and we begin to feel safe, even fearless… we are with family.

We are home.

Indeed, my second ‘family’ space, is with my church family – in particular my home group. We are small, but we know each other so well, we feel safe to be completely vulnerable, we care for each other. And we hang out beyond our ‘official’ spaces, going to the cinema, having film nights at each others homes, going out for drinks.

We’re family. And whenever I’m with family, I’m home.

A recent church picnic – we are home.

My third space will surprise you, given all I’ve said. It’s when I’m at home, on my own, in my flat. Part of this, naturally, is because I’m an introvert – and we introverts often prefer being on our own, in our own space. We need it to gain energy, and it’s a safe space to disconnect.

I also believe it’s home because I’m never really alone at home. Because somewhere in my soul, I know it’s a place I can be vulnerable, honest, and raw in a way I can’t anywhere else, because it’s just me… and God. And maybe, just maybe, because this flat is part of my late Mother’s legacy to me – and every so often, I remember her when I’m here.

Family. Heavenly and earthly. Even physically by myself.

I believe home is relational, more than anything. Even physical places we call home, usually, like my flat, feel that way because of a relational connection in some way.

Think about all the places, people, spaces you call home. And try to see it in a relational way. Open your eyes to see, this is you family. This is your place. This is where you can be you. And then, let’s try to create that space for others. Make our little place of the world a place where others can call home.

Imagine if all of us did this … what an amazing world that would be. That, for me is, God’s dream for us. That’s heaven, right here, right now.

James Prescott is a writer, editor, blogger & author from Sutton, near London. He is author of two e-books, Dance Of The Writer and Unlocking Creativity and hosts a weekly podcast ‘James Talks’. His first print book Mosaic Of Grace: Gods’ Beautiful Reshaping Of Our Broken Lives releases later this year. Find his work at jamesprescott.co.uk & follow him on Facebook or on Twitter at @JamesPrescott77.

July 8, 2016
Grounded by CF Dunn

I love Claire Dunn’s post today, not least because she highlights the truth about home being about people more than places. A poignant reminder to ponder in days of uncertainty.

Home. Now there’s a funny thing. It’s a word we use with abandon – ‘no place like home’, ‘home is where the heart is’, ‘home-from-home’ – and home is something we tend to take for granted without thinking about it too much.

Finding balance.

As the offspring of an RAF pilot, I had many homes when growing up. Until the age of eleven, we moved every two and a half years. No sooner had I settled in one house, than my mother would be up to her elbows in newspaper, wrapping up our world to move to the next. As a child, I had no say in the matter, of course, I just went with the flow. My family was my home and my world, and I moved with it.

Shared memories.

But as a young teen, I became more aware of myself in relation to the world around me – the people, the places, the things – and a growing realisation that I belonged… nowhere. History has always been important to me, perhaps because I felt I had none myself, and a knowledge of the past helped me feel rooted. I searched for meaning, for something to help me feel anchored. At first it was my grandparents’ house in Stamford, and the long history that tied our family to the area. I dreaded the time when we might no longer have any links there, spending hours fretting over the future. And then, one day, my grandmother died, the house was sold, and the last cord that gave me some semblance of stability – of identity – vanished. I felt bereft, displaced, lost.

I turned next to a small and insignificant village in North Cornwall – somewhere generations of my extended family had visited for nearly a hundred years and where I went as often as school holidays allowed. There, I spent happy weeks with my family, my cousins, and cousins of cousins, knowing every tree bent by the sea wind, every rock and every pool. The people in the local town became friends, and I felt more rooted there than anywhere else in the country. Oh, how important it is to be able to identify with a culture, to be able to say you come from somewhere – to belong.

We are family.

But, as I attained adulthood and had my own family, I came to realise that vital though roots are, I needed more to grow. I had become a Christian at the age of eighteen, and felt free for the first time in my life knowing that I had a home in Christ. It wasn’t as simple as that, of course – life didn’t suddenly become easier, but He became my bedrock and helped me change my perspective on life.

I still have a yearning to belong somewhere – to a place, a time, a thing – but it isn’t overwhelming. Instead I treasure the memories I have with my family and the new ones we forge. This is what matters – the history we create. We have a shared history that will continue long after I’m gone and as such, I will always belong.

Writing as CF Dunn, Claire Dunn is a Christian novelist writing historical and contemporary suspense fiction for the general market. Her debut novel Mortal Fire – published by Lion Fiction – won the gold medal for adult romance in the Book Of The Year Awards, 2012, and was nominated for Best Novel by CRT in the same year.

Alongside her first loves of family, history and writing, CF Dunn is passionate about the education and welfare of children with dyslexia, autism and communication difficulties, and runs a special needs school, which she founded in Kent with her husband.

Book four – Realm of Darkness – was recently released in the UK, and The Secret Of The Journal series comes to a heart-stopping conclusion with the publication of book five, Fearful Symmetry, this September.

July 1, 2016
Home: shadows and sojourners (or, There’s a place for us) by Philippa Linton

What a joy to welcome Philippa Linton to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series today. We worked together at HarperCollins at the turn of the millennium, and lost touch with each other until last year’s Woman Alive/BRF women’s day in Woking where I was speaking. What a delight when up walked Philippa – the years disappeared and in a flash I was transported back to our lunches in the canteen and trying to figure out if we could sell any of the rights to our books to foreign publishers. Her contribution today is poignant and moving, as she acknowledges life’s shadows.

My childhood home was a suburban, Victorian house with a large, beautiful garden and a menagerie of various animals including an excitable border collie, an imperious ginger cat and a rabble of cute guinea pigs. (The imperious ginger cat also liked to visit various other homes along our street, much to our amusement.) I had a happy family. Home was safe and secure: it was also a place where I could shut out the rest of the world.

A favourite beauty spot near home, Emmetts Garden in Kent.

During my final year at university, a post-graduate acquaintance invited me and a small group of friends to take part in a set of informal psychological exercises. In one of these exercises we had to draw a house, which if I remember rightly, was meant to symbolise our childhood. We weren’t supposed to think too long about this, simply go with our instincts and put down on paper the first impression that came into our heads. It was meant to be fun, but with a purpose: our artistic self-expression would reveal deep and meaningful things about our inner lives. I drew an eerie, desolate house with shuttered windows on a moonlit night.

The friend who had set us the task peered at my picture. ‘Hmm’, he said, ‘there’s a mystery to you!’

It was an odd image for someone who came from a loving, stable background and who still loved her family home, but I didn’t see anything sinister in it. I think that drawing reflected some subconscious ambivalence about my childhood, about the insecurities and shadows that fall across even the happiest childhoods.

Geraniums on my mother’s window sill.

My shadow was my adoption: much as I loved my family, I would sometimes wonder, ‘who am I and where do these genes come from?’ Yet at the same time I’ve always celebrated being adopted, a ‘chosen child’. For me that mixture of positivity and darkness, that dance of sunlight and shadow, is part of my adoption story and indeed an essential part of life. When I hit my mid-thirties, I decided to trace my birth mother and it turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. Consequently I gained a family in Northern Ireland, in addition to my large adoptive family in England.

The concept of ‘home’ is less a location for me than it is a feeling, a place where you are completely accepted, where you can relax, kick off your shoes, and be yourself. The current place where I live is like that. Four years ago the tragic death of a close housemate prompted my decision to leave the house where I’d been a co-tenant for 26 years. Obviously I couldn’t afford the rent on my own, but I didn’t have the emotional capacity to advertise for a replacement either: I was grieving the loss of my friend and my heart wasn’t in it. Enter a married couple from my church who offered me a room in their house as their lodger. This financial arrangement was a God-send, given that the private rents in my area have almost doubled in the past few years. My friends’ kind offer and hospitality was timely: by that point, I was more than ready to leave that house, I had already let go, emotionally.

At Mount Stewart gardens in Northern Ireland.

The New Testament describes the people of God as ‘sojourners and exiles’ (1 Peter 2:11). The spiritual life is often about pushing forward to new horizons and adventures, and not making ourselves too comfortable in worldly systems. Besides, life throws curve-balls: we all have to face change and loss, it’s part and parcel of our pilgrimage on this earth.

I am blessed to have a home: I may not own it, but I have an emotional stake in it, and I have a roof over my head, a warm, comfy bed to sleep in and a garden to relax in. Best of all, I have friends and companions to share the ups and downs of life with.

All of us long for security. All of us long to come home, whatever form and shape ‘home’ may take. Jesus said: “There is plenty of room for you in my Father’s home. If that weren’t so, would I have told you that I’m on my way to get a room ready for you? And if I’m on my way to get your room ready, I’ll come back and get you so you can live where I live.” (John 14: 2-3, The Message)

There is a place for us. We all matter, and there is a place for us.

Philippa’s day job is working for the education & learning department at the United Reformed Church in London. She is also a Reader (lay minister) in the Church of England. She likes J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, early 20^th century feminism, and cats.

June 17, 2016
Can We Ever Return Home? by Cindy Galizio

It’s an honor to invite Cindy to the blog today, especially because she’s a reader who got in touch after reading Finding Myself in Britain. She could relate to the theme of finding and making a home, as you’ll see below. She asks in her post the profound question: Can we ever really go home?

“There’s no place like home.” I agree with those iconic words spoken by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, but where is home and can we ever go back? I never gave the notion much thought until I experienced “going back home” first hand.

Twelve years ago, my husband was fortunate to be offered the choice of two different positions with his company; one was in Manchester, England, and the other in Pennsylvania. Although I knew these were wonderful opportunities for our family, I was apprehensive about moving, especially overseas. I had never lived anywhere outside of New York, where I had grown up, and Michigan, where I was living at the time, and hardly ever traveled abroad. I had the normal concerns. How would the move affect my children? Would we fit in and be accepted in a new city or new culture?

At the time, my step-father was battling stage 4 stomach cancer and moving to Pennsylvania would have put us closer to our family in New York where I could visit and help with his care. But I knew how much my husband wanted to work overseas. He understood my dilemma and left the final decision to me. On a visit to New York I spoke with my parents and they both agreed that we should make the decision based on what we wanted and not to let my step-father’s illness make the decision for us. In fact, my parents urged us to accept the position in England.

On our long car ride back home to Michigan, after that New York visit, I put my head in my lap and asked God to give me a sign to help me make this difficult decision. I prayed for a bit and as I lifted my head from my lap and looked out the car window a truck was passing by. On the side of that truck in huge bold letters was the word ENGLAND. As silly as it may seem I took that as my sign from God and we made the decision to accept the position in England.

Me and my family on a trip to London.

As it turned out my step-father passed away three months later on the day we were flying to England to search for a home and school for our children. I will never know if he knew he wouldn’t be around much longer and he didn’t want us to miss out on this great opportunity, but I felt a huge relief that I had made the right decision.

All of my fears about living in England were for naught. I felt oddly at home living there. My children were warmly welcomed at their school and made some great friends. I also made great friendships with four British women that I am still in touch with ten years later.

After two very short years living in England, my husband was transferred back to the States, and I didn’t want to move back. I was enjoying submerging myself in a new culture and hoping to deepen my new friendships. The only thing that brought me comfort was the fact that we were moving back home. Back to the same town in Michigan that we came from. Everything would be familiar and I would be with my good friends once again.

On a ramble with my children, Melissa and Patrick, in the Lake District.

And this is when the question, can we go back home, was answered for me. I had had these amazing experiences I was excited to share but my friends weren’t excited to hear about them. They couldn’t relate to my stories or to me because they hadn’t had the same experiences. What I didn’t realize was that over the course of two short years everyone I knew in Michigan had moved on with their lives. I was no longer a part of things and we couldn’t just pick up where we left off. I tried to re-establish old relationships but didn’t feel accepted and didn’t understand why. These were friends who cried when they found out I was moving to England, so why weren’t they excited that I was back? I fell into a deep depression and finally I realized I had to move on as well. I needed to establish new friendships and stop trying to regain old friendships.

Eileen, Kathryn, me and Doranne on a visit back to England – my wonderful British friends.

While reading Amy’s book, Finding Myself in Britain, I came across a quote from Karl Dahlfred that made me think hard and realize that maybe my former friends weren’t the only ones that had changed. Maybe living overseas had changed me as well. I couldn’t place all the blame on them. Maybe I couldn’t relate to them any more than they could relate to me.

Over the years since we have returned I have established new friendships and rarely tell stories about life overseas anymore. I’ve come to realize that home isn’t a country, city, or neighborhood. It’s not a physical place or even being around former friends. Home is where you are surrounded by those you feel most comfortable with at any given time no matter where you are. Now I feel a sense of being “at home” when I am with my family, current friends, or when I have the fortunate opportunity to visit my friends in England.

Dorothy was right: There is no place like home. You just have to know where to find it.

Cindy Galizio was born and raised in a small town in New York and worked in New York City in the world of finance for 12 years before relocating to Michigan with her husband. Shortly after the move she had two children and decided to be a stay at home mom. When her children were 9 and 10 her husband’s job relocated the family just outside of Manchester, England for two years and Cindy embraced and fully immersed herself in the new culture. On her move back across the pond her career as a “professional volunteer” began. She loves helping others in need and admits that selfishly she receives more from volunteering than the people that she helps. Cindy and her husband just recently became empty nesters and are excitedly anticipating the next phase of life.

June 10, 2016
The different kinds of home by Bex Lewis

Bex Lewis gives us a wonderfully varied look at home, reflecting the mobile nature of our society today. I love her reflections. And I love that I don’t really know where I first met her, because we were online friends before we met in person. But there’s not a difference in our engaging, whether online or in person, which is a point she embodies. She sees the positive points of online life and also, in her book Raising Children in a Digital Age, helps adults think critically.

So, currently I’m on a train from Winchester back to Manchester, places that have very different notions of ‘home’ for me – a place with a deep sense of belonging, and a place full of the adventures of a new life. The immediate thought goes to geography – as a ‘Southern Softie’ who grew up on the south coast of England, twenty minutes above Brighton, I have spent an unexpected amount of time ‘north of Watford’ in the last decade!

‘Home is where you put your hat’ is the famous saying, but for me, there are different kinds of home, and it’s not all about geographical location. In Sussex, where I grew up, one of my oldest friends is still there and there are flashes of memory when I return, but my parents have left. They now live somewhere that I wouldn’t refer to as ‘home’ because I didn’t grow up there, although it’s lovely to see my parents, and go somewhere quiet for ‘time out’. Each new home has offered new adventures, new possibilities, and some sadnesses as things are left behind.

The home where I grew up in Sussex.

Winchester was the first place I got to experience living independently, and is somewhere that I have lived on and off since 1994, and most of my longest and deepest friendships originated there. Durham offered the first opportunity to buy my own home – and I was very keen to make the house a home, with the paintbrushes, the comfortable (if second-hand) furniture, getting to know my neighbours, and offering a hospitable welcome to friends. When I was faced with redundancy from that role, I knew I didn’t want to stay, and sat down with a friend to consider where I might want my new home to be – as home is so much more than a place to live and work – both Winchester and Manchester were on the list – one a lot more affordable than the other in terms of being able to afford my own home. Thankfully, the right opportunity came up in Manchester, and I have now called that city ‘home’ since September (despite actually officially living in Stockport, but, you know, it’s part of ‘greater Manchester’!). There is a running joke amongst my family and friends that they have to put my address in in pencil, because I’ve moved so often over the last twenty years … but hopefully this time is going to be for a good few years!

Having my 40th at a lovely friend’s home in Winchester with loads of family and friends to celebrate.

At home in Durham.

In my PhD I used Benedict Anderson’s notion of an ‘imagined community’. In the Second World War the British people were fighting together for the imagined community of their nation:

It is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them, of even hear of them, yet in the minds of Anderson questions what ‘makes people love and die for nations, as well as hate and kill in  their name’.[1]

I’ve always been fascinated about what gives people a sense of identity, a sense of belonging, and within that, what makes people feel ‘at home’. Dictionary.com has an interesting range of definitions for ‘home’: a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household; the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered; an institution for the homeless, sick, etc.: a nursing home; the dwelling place or retreat of an animal; the place or region where something is native or most common; any place of residence or refuge: a heavenly home; a person’s native place or own country; (in games) the destination or goal; a principal base of operations or activities: The new stadium will be the home of the local football team.

I am fascinated that these definition include the use ‘a heavenly home’ as an example, which reminds me of 2 Corinthians 5:1 For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands, something that I heard at a Billy Graham event at which I made my own ‘personal decision’ that I wanted to live in one of the heavenly mansions, though now it appears to be more about having a heavenly body – without the trials and tribulations of our human bodies.

Meantime, whilst living on earth, I have found it important to seek to be part of the local community – starting with getting to know my neighbours well (I posted a photo/brief personal bio through each of their doors as I started moving in). Those who know me will not be surprised to heard that I also consider my ‘digital community’ to be key, and that this a place I certainly feel very at home. Facebook in particular has allowed re-connection with old friends and re-participation in their lives, whilst getting to know new friends (often before meeting them in person). Social media has helped me with all of my big moves, including private Facebook groups for those in the area for practical queries, and those who care and want to pray for those decisions being made, and Twitter which allows a quick build-up of new personal and professional networks around interest-areas, and Freecycle to get rid of (and occasionally collect) stuff as I decluttered over my three years in Durham!

Getting the keys to my new place in Manchester.

Arriving to this empty space – rather dispiriting!

But it can feel like home quickly.

In writing Raising Children in a Digital Age, particularly whilst writing about bullying, it became clear that many see ‘home’ as a place of safety, one that was challenged by the global nature of digital technology. No longer could one ‘shut the door’ and shut the world out (could we ever truly do this), and we could live our ‘private’ lives as we wanted (have our lives ever truly been private – if we look back in history, it’s only for around 200 years that this has been an expectation). New technology is challenging our understanding of participation in life – and with the media focusing on so many of the negative aspects, it can be hard to remember the positive aspects – the opportunities to connect, to maintain relationships, and to use the opportunities provided for positive, rather than negative, purposes.

Finding home amongst my online community.

For me, home is where relationships are, whether that is offline or online, places that I can feel comfortable to ‘put my feet up’, whether that is literally, or in a place – such as church housegroups – where one can open up and share lives with others. Let’s make them spaces where people feel welcome, where they feel comfortable – and if you’re in my house – comfortable enough to make your own tea-and-coffee, as I don’t drink them and typically forget to offer them!

Tonight I’ll be back under my own roof, in the house that I am seeking to turn into a home – using the colours that I love, displaying objects that have associated memories, a place I can be hospitable … and where tomorrow I’ll be able to put my feet up on the new sofa!

Dr Bex Lewis is passionate about helping people engage with the digital world in a positive way, where she has 19+ years of experience. Trained as a mass communications historian, writing the original history of Keep Calm and Carry On, she is Senior Lecturer in Digital Marketing at Manchester Metropolitan University, and Visiting Research Fellow at St John’s College, Durham University, with a particular interest in digital culture, and how this affects the third sector, especially faith organisations, voluntary organisations, and government behavioural campaigns. She is Director of social media consultancy Digital Fingerprint, and is author of ‘Raising Children in a Digital Age’ (Lion Hudson, 2014), which has been featured on The One Show, BBC News, Steve Wright in the Afternoon, and in the Daily Telegraph, The Church Times, and in many other publications.

[1] Anderson, B., Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 1991, p.6 (emphasis in the original)

May 27, 2016
Home – Belonging and Becoming by Sheridan Voysey

I’m delighted to welcome Sheridan Voysey to the blog today, sharing some thoughts on home that he originally gave on BBC Radio 2’s Pause for Thought. Sheridan is a wonderful writer and speaker, whom I’ve been delighted to come to know along with his wife Merryn since they moved to the UK from their native Australia. He invites you to ask yourself, “Where is ‘home’ for you—that place where you feel you most belong? Is it the house where you grew up? Your current home? Is it just being with your loved ones, wherever you are, or is it something else entirely?”

When I visited my hometown of Brisbane, Australia, I had an eerie experience. One night I drove to Kangaroo Point—a cliff top that provides a stunning view of the city—and as I sat there watching the cars rush by on Riverside Drive and the city’s lights shimmer on the Brisbane River, I realised I could see the spots where some of my significant life events took place.

In front of me was the bustling city, where I’d come as a teenager to buy records and feel grown up. To my right was the Story Bridge, which my dad had driven me across each day to my very first job. To the left was Southbank, the park where Merryn and I had our first date. The first flat I rented was up the river and to the left—it was a converted storeroom with a cockroach problem, but I felt so free and independent living there. And to the right of that was the first radio station I worked at.

As I sat reliving these memories I was struck by something: even with all these experiences, Brisbane didn’t feel like ‘home’ for me. And it never had.

The theme of finding home is a significant one as in some ways I’ve been searching for home for some time. It wasn’t until Merryn and I moved to Sydney that I truly felt at home. In Sydney long-held dreams came true, the beauty of Sydney Harbour captured my soul, I was doing work that mattered, and its cosmopolitan feel meant I didn’t have to like football and beer to fit in! I could be myself in Sydney.

Home is a place of belonging. It’s where you can be yourself and be loved for it. In this sense friends and family are ‘home’ for me, particularly Merryn. Her acceptance means home is wherever we are together. And God is ‘home’ for me. I can feel a sense of home praying in a hotel far away because wherever he is, home is.

But home is also a place of becoming. It’s a place that challenges us to grow and share our God-given gifts with the world. This is what Sydney gave me that Brisbane didn’t. This is what Oxford gives me now.

So this is what I’ve learnt along my search: Home is a place of belonging and becoming—where you can be who you truly are, and become who you’re truly meant to be.

Where do you find home?

Sheridan Voysey is a writer, speaker, and broadcaster on faith and spirituality. His books include Resilient: Your Invitation to a Jesus-Shaped Life, Resurrection Year: Turning Broken Dreams into New Beginnings (shortlisted for the 2014 ECPA Christian Book of the Year) and Unseen Footprints: Encountering the Divine Along the Journey of Life (2006 Australian Christian Book of the Year). He has been featured in numerous TV and radio programs, is a regular contributor to faith programs on BBC Radio 2, and speaks at conferences and events around the world. Sheridan is married to Merryn, and resides in Oxford, United Kingdom.

May 20, 2016
Where’s home? by Jo Swinney

It’s lovely welcoming Jo Swinney to the blog today, and especially to have her write about home. When I was commissioning books for Authentic Media, we met up and bandied about ideas for her to write, and one of them was a book about home. I was delighted to learn recently that she’s placed that book with Hodder, and that it will be coming out next summer. Here’s a taster to whet your appetite.

As someone who has lived in more than 25 houses, five countries and three continents, the concept of home has been a perplexing one for me. There have been times I’ve felt so rootless the most inane of all openers at social gatherings – ‘Where are you from?’ – has been enough to conjure embarrassing tears. As humans, we have a fundamental need for a safe place, a place we belong, where we can be ourselves, a place from which we can offer hospitality.

With my family as a child.

When I was a small child, I understood home to be wherever my parents were. I was fortunate to have a mother and father who were unequivocally pleased by my arrival and whose love was unchanging from place to place. As my three siblings joined us, our unit only became stronger.

When we moved to Portugal when I was five, I missed England at first. I missed my best friend Joey, I missed the sweet shop, I missed the park and I missed our church where my dad had been a curate. I felt important in that church. Everyone knew me, and in Portugal no one did. Home was my family, but it was also England – and I wasn’t there.

At thirteen I went to boarding school, and I was dreadfully homesick. By then home was Portugal, although culturally I was a strange hybrid of different influences. Living in community in a field study centre, the first A Rocha project, I brushed up against people from all over the world. My faith was a huge part of who I was and as I entered the first episode of the depression that would be a regular, unwelcome feature of life from then on, I looked to God to be my shelter, my refuge, my rock. But I was still homesick.

First day of boarding school.

The next few years were a kaleidoscope of people and places – a crazy, colourful adventure that left me spinning. For a while I gave up on the notion of home altogether, preferring to think of myself as a global citizen on a footloose amble towards heaven, where I assumed I’d finally feel settled. I felt a bit smug about this, and quietly judged the less spiritual who tied themselves to mortgages and joined local government.

Our lovely wood-burning stove.

I don’t see things that way anymore. I’ve come to recognise home as a God-given idea. My home these days is this house I live in, a house with a wood-burning stove and an apple tree in the garden. It is my husband and my little girls. It is my secure place in the eternal love of the Trinity. It is the memories of all the places I have spent time and carry with me, and it is in this body and this self which is being formed in the image of Christ, albeit excruciatingly slowly.

So where’s home? Home is here. Home is now. Wherever I am, I choose to make it home.

Jo Swinney is a writer, editor and speaker. She is currently working on her fifth book – an exploration of the meaning of home, due to be published by Hodder & Stoughton in June 2017. She blogs at www.joswinney.com.

May 13, 2016
Romancing us Home by Betty Ringeisen

I first met Betty Ringeisen at a prayer conference, and we connected on so many levels. We’ve stayed in touch over the years, and I was pleased to write for her Kingdom Life Now venture. She writes about a different aspect of finding home – the Divine Romance.

When I was a teenager, Danielle Steel was one of the top selling romance novelists. My girlfriends and I devoured her books like a bucket of Boardwalk Fries. Steel was the 80’s version of Nicholas Sparks. Each book offered an escape into the world of romance. As teenagers, my girlfriends and I craved a good love story.

Things haven’t changed much in the last 30 years. I still love a good romantic story.

Last week my daughter and I attended a mother/daughter sleepover. Basically, it was a bunch of girls (of all ages) eating junk food and watching chick-flicks all night. Pride and Prejudice was the crowd favorite. Every girl in the room went crazy as Mr. Darcy strode across the meadow at dawn to pledge his undying love for Elizabeth. As the two lovers met I couldn’t helping feeling like they had found their home.

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet by C. E. Brock (1895). “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” Public domain.

When we think of home we often think of a building or structure where we live. However, the Hebrew word for home has a much deeper meaning. The word is often used to mean everything on which one depends. In other words, home means everything.

All of us, whether we’re willing to admit it or not, long to be someone’s everything. We long for someone to desire us so much they say words that are reminiscent of Mr. Darcy’s words to Elizabeth. “I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day forth.”

Most of us fail to realize the desire for a home was planted in our hearts by our Creator. From the moment we were conceived our own love story was already written. Listen to these romantic words:

“You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day” (Psalm 139:13-16, The Message).

We all long to be known. To be loved. To be invited into our own romantic love story. We want to be invited…home.

“From childhood on, something or Someone has called us on a journey of the heart. It is a journey full of intimacy, adventure, and beauty. But like any fairy tale it is also fraught with more than a little danger. To ignore this whispered call is to become one of the living dead who carry on their lives divorced from their most intimate selves, their heart. The Sacred Romance calls to us in our fondest memories, our greatest loves, our noblest achievements, even our deepest hurts. The reward is worth the risk. God Himself longs for us, if we are but willing . . . (The Sacred Romance, John Eldridge and Brent Curtis).

Most of us fail to see God’s longing for us. His constant pursuit of us. And yet, He’s always been there… Seeking us… Initiating a relationship with us. He draws us into intimacy with Him and invites us to love Him in response to His great love for us. George Eldon Ladd writes, “God is seeking out sinners and inviting them to submit themselves to His reign that He might be their Father.”

When Adam and Eve took the bite of the forbidden fruit they disconnected from their Father, and their communion with Him was broken. Desperately, they ran and hid from their Father, but He pursued them. Not as an angry Father looking to punish His naughty children for misbehaving, but as a Father who never stopped loving and caring for His son and daughter. His desire was to reclaim them as His own. To bring them…home.

Thousands of years later, His desire is the same… to reclaim each of us and bring us home.

By Zerovina (Own work), Creative Commons

In the Scriptures, it is clear God has a persistent pursuing love for His people. He is madly, deeply, and truly in love with each of us. He will do everything and anything within His power to win our hearts, to draw us to Him, and to get us to the point of surrendering to His amazing love for us.

Imagine the early morning sun rising on the horizon. You look and see Him striding across the meadow towards you. As He stands in front of you He confesses, “I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day forth.”

God has invited you into a love story. Are you willing to take the risk? Are you willing to accept His invitation? Are you willing to come home?

Betty Ringeisen is a writer, experienced conference speaker, and Bible teacher. Her greatest passion is to help others discover their God given identity. Betty believes every person has a destiny carved out for them and she equips others to meet their highest potential. She lives in the Northern Virginia area with her husband, Donny, and their four children. She home schools her children, loves to bake with chocolate, and runs marathons in her spare time. To view some of Betty’s past articles go to: www.thekingdomlifenow.com

May 6, 2016