What would you grab if your house was on fire? Many people asked me that question after my house burned down on Christmas of 1989. “What did you grab?” people inquired as they painfully thought of all the things they would grab on the way out of the house. These were things they couldn’t live without. Before I answer that question, let me take a minute to give you background on this story.

Have you ever looked down at your gas gauge and thought, Uh oh! The orange light is on and looks like the tank is on Empty! Moving along on fumes to get the gas station usually works, but there was one time (that I will admit) when Carl and I did indeed run out of gas and had to walk home. Granted, it was just about a mile walk, but when you’re wearing heels and it’s a hot Florida summer night, that can be a long walk! An empty gas tank is an easy “empty” to fix – go get the gas can, fill the tank, and you are back in business. Personal emptiness is so much more difficult than an empty gas tank.

Several weeks ago, I attended the funeral of my boyfriend’s grandfather, a dearly beloved old man. On the back of the bulletin, his wife chose to inscribe one of their favorite quotes, which she thought fitting: “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world could ever satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” - C.S. Lewis When I noticed the quote, I stared at it for a whole minute in surprise. For several years, since I first read it, this has been one of my favorite lines, and it echoes in my head quite often. This spring, more often than usual.

"I don't like Lent." Who said that? Full disclosure: I did. Is that even allowed? Before you decide one way or the other, ask yourself this: Do you like Lent?

“We’ve checked into the hotel earth overnight on our way to the heavenly Jerusalem. Earth is not our home.” I heard Brennan Manning say these words many times. So where is our home?

Home is where the heart is. Home away from home. All Roads lead to home...or is that Rome? These colloquialisms go on and on. At this stage in my life I often feel like this: Home is where the noise is. However, my home hasn’t always been that way.

Scripture says that in heaven there will be no more weeping and sorrow or crying or tears…. that is our destiny, our eternal HOME, but what about as we journey on this earth? We are "walking each other home on this earthly journey toward Heaven" but what is home here on earth…what does HOME look like in the meantime? Where and how do we share our tears and our sorrows (along with the joys) while we are here?

My husband and I built our dream home on 10.5 acres in Virginia. We contracted the whole thing ourselves, and Peter himself laid all our heart of pine floors. I picked out all the colors of paint. The walls were mostly a creamy yellow, which I consider the happiest color. We planned to raise our family there. We installed a full swing set in the backyard even though our oldest could only use the baby swing. We had plenty of space, extra bedrooms, and scenic views from every window. We joked that this would be the house we would die in. (That's pretty dark humor, I know.) We lived there for 1.5 years. Our entire lives turned upside down at that moment. The life we were building in Virginia? God decided to close that door abruptly and without much warning. We sold out dream home in a week and moved to Florida. We shoved our furniture in a storage unit and moved into 2 bedrooms in my inlaws' house. Our two kids in one room, Peter and I in another. The whole thing was shocking, sad, and God-led.

In 2002 when we felt the Lord call us to move to the Orlando area to be closer to all of our children and grandchildren, we first had to sell our home in Pittsburgh to afford our new Florida home. No offers came for several months, until a husband and wife came one evening, looked quickly at the home, spoke to me briefly, and left. I said to Ida that I strongly felt this was the couple who would be the buyers.

My Christmas tree is a fire hazard. I look at it and simultaneously have two thoughts: "Oh, you are so lovely with your twinkling lights," and "Please don't kill us all." I suppose that is what I get for buying a live tree right after Thanksgiving. My children picked it out, and when I pointed out the brown bits on a branch, they carelessly brushed my concerns aside. I asked the tree lot manager, "Is this tree dying?" "Lady," he replied brusquely, "this tree's been dying since it was cut." I was not appeased. And then he said the magic words, "But I'll give you 50% off."