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.