A year ago I was on my way to Scotland.

And, I am still there.

Land and ancestry are cellular things.  I have long felt a natural affinity to rocks, wind and water.  After traveling to Scotland it is clear to me why that is.  While I was there, the hum of recognition was real.  I was in the land of home.

My grandfather emigrated from the Isle of Lewis.  A dear friend brought home a photo of the Macaulay homestead on Lewis.  The photo showed a dome of hewn stone once occupied by others until the Macaulays decided it ought be theirs.  They didn’t negotiate for ownership:  they set fire to heather, put it over the smoke vent in the roof, and smoked out the competition.

So it goes.

I am serving the church of my forebears.  After arriving at Richfield UMC, I discovered that my great great grandparents had been committed members of that church.  In the chapel there is a memorial window marking the life of a thirteen year old girl who died after contracting pneumonia.  The young girl is my grandmother’s cousin.  How is it possible I had no idea of my Methodist heritage?  How is it possible that as an adult I fell in love with the piety and justice combo platter that is the United Methodist Church (I grew up a UCC preacher’s kid) and made my life in my ancestral denomination?  How is it I went to Richfield having no idea that being appointed there meant a home coming?

Home is a cellular thing.  It is a moveable temple.  It is known in the deep wisdom of our beings and when we find ourselves in that place, the song of our ancestors sings welcome.

So, a year ago I went home.  Today I am home.

So it goes.



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