There is nothing like being home

I am physically there as I write this note to my parish family. The first three days of my trip, I was reveling in my birth and creation place, northwest Philadelphia. I was surround by familiar flora and fauna, tall bold maple and oak trees, birds of bright colors and cute scurrying chipmunks. These are my birth neighbors. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but there is a rhythm here that puts me at ease.

I walk by the house that I lived in from 4 years to 24 years old. It has been well taken care of, and I am living that time again. A block away, I visit my parents, who are surrounded by their friends in the church columbarium. I walk another block, and I am at my school, 3rd to 12th grade. The shell is the same, time has made various changes to the interior, and to my joy, the spirit which I found here and nurtured me all those years ago is still central to it existence. Every hallway, doorway, art display, teacher board, and athletic field prepare a space for each student, faculty, and staff to discover their place in this world.

This is my home, a liminal space between what I once was and what I am to become. I live on the threshold of change, now and for ever. However, it is my choice as to how I live into this unceasing change, this relationship with the Spirit.

In my school chapel, the three organ-pipe ranks have the following words from Joel inscribed upon them.

Your old men shall dream dreams.

And your young men shall see visions.

O sing it to the Lord a new song.

I have a choice to live.

Will I be an old man who tilts at windmills?

Will I be a young man who see himself a member of a colony on Mars?

Will I be a spiritual man who lives each moment in the here and now of the cosmos?

Which choice(s) will bring me and my neighbor the most joy?

O sing it to the Lord a new song.

A song of love.

Humbly,

Peter