(From a mission partner in Central Asia)
“On Christmas Eve, I went with other teachers to sing some carols and bring gifts to a couple friends. One thing I didn’t know before moving here was that the people we serve are often the more well-off people in the neighborhood. We stood, lighting our candles before entering each huge front gate, praying in the silence before the first notes of the songs that the Lord would enter these homes with us, and fill them with his light and peace and joy — so much more than all the money in the world could buy.
It doesn’t work, culturally, to stand out in the cold on people’s doorsteps for too long. We were quickly invited inside at every house we visited while caroling. It was so wonderful to be able to have tea with my language teacher and to get to visit her at her house for the first time.
At night, after returning home, I sat in front of my tiny Christmas tree and sang alone in the candlelight — and while the most comfortable, homey thing in the world, it also made me ache as I thought of my family gathered together around their own tree. There are so many homes that I have called mine. It becomes increasingly difficult to know that I can only be in one of them at a time, and yet, I know that none of these “almost-homes” are where I’m supposed to belong forever. The way the snow here takes my breath away, the laughter of the children on the street, the sunset over fields, the wind across the plains, the longing in my heart at all of it — they’re just glimpses of the home that is waiting: the home I have because of Jesus.
It is so amazing to remember how God makes his home here; not only in the stable where he was born, but in the midst of our messy lives and last-minute cleaning before the guests arrive. He makes his home in the houses of the people here, to whom his light shines, even in the midst of the darkest night. He dwells with us, and home is where he is.“
