When we moved to Brazil in 1984, I told my wife that this was home. Home is where our family is. I’d heard missionaries talk about going “home” to the States. They’d never made the switch in their emotional loyalties.
To this day people will ask me, “So are you going to make Brazil your home?” I want to tell them, “I made Brazil my home on Nov. 28, 1984.”
Last year, I traveled in the U.S., alone, for two months. Every day, I missed home. Every day, I wanted to go home. I love my parents, siblings, uncles and aunts. I love the land of my birth, visited my old high school and congregation where I was baptized. I’m grateful for those roots.
But I wasn’t home.
Now, let me shift gears.
Home is the haven where we rest, relax, enjoy each other, cherish our family. And it’s a place where we open the door for hospitality. For people to share in the gospel, the peace of where we live, the love that reigns here. Home is the place where we learn trust, forgiveness, tolerance, truth. Home is the promise of heaven.
Home is to me the sweetest word.