Journey To A Home I’ve Never Seen

by Rob Goodale

Eleven months ago, I struck out on my maiden voyage across the mighty Atlantic, an immigrant in a middle seat with not quite enough leg room (but enough nerves and enthusiasm to make up for it), on a journey to a home I had never seen.

I arrived with my companion in a foreign land where the cars are driven on the left side of the road and the words are spoken with a merry, melodic, mischievous charm and the nature consists of shades of green that computers have yet to be able to replicate.

For eleven months, we lived as strangers in a home we had not yet been, and gradually discovered the really important things about our new habitat: that the cheapest pints actually are the best, that tea is less of a beverage and more of an evergreen instrument of hospitality, and that buses, meetings, shops, and restaurants each operate with their own sporadic sense of time.

There were doors that opened when we expected them to stay closed, and hearts that did the opposite. Landscapes that were more rugged than they initially appeared, and men who were less. Generosity and geniality seem to be in the water, and yet so, too, do skepticism and cynicism. The entire island nation is exactly what one would expect, until, upon further scrutiny, it isn’t at all like what one would expect. In this way, it is intensely human… and perhaps also divine.

We encountered happiness and anger and joy and pettiness and hope and sorrow and patience and despair. There were saints and geniuses and prophets. Maybe once, I discovered that I was not one of them. There were also cowards and liars and thieves. More than once, I discovered that I was indeed one of them. That’s the way for most of us, I think. Were it not for Grace, ours would be an impossible task.

Progress and productivity occurred in strange and mysterious and unexpected places -- He has a way of showing up when and where you least expect Him, doesn’t He? That is, I think, what Irenaeus was getting at when he called the Incarnation a scandal.

I do not understand this place, nor have I begun attempting to understand how living here has shaped me. Yet I have no doubt that the Almighty dwells in these hills and these fields and these pubs and these homes. Many have forgotten, to be sure, but there is Magic in this land. I bow and beam with gratitude for the privilege of having witnessed it.

And now I make a return trip across the sea, again an immigrant with not quite enough leg room, on a journey to a home I have never seen. I imagine I will gradually discover things about my new habitat: where to find the best pints and what hospitality looks like and whether buses and barber shops and board meetings all run on time in Ohio (I sincerely doubt it).

I imagine I will find open hearts and unexpected generosity, and perhaps also closed doors and cynical minds. There are undoubtedly saints and geniuses and cowards and liars; I myself will add to their number. I will set out to show the face of God to young men and women, and will likely find Him in places I do not expect.

I do not understand that place, either. I cannot begin to imagine how I will be shaped by living there. Yet I have no doubt that the Almighty dwells in those hills and those fields and those bars and those homes. I pray I do not forget that there is Magic in that land, too, and I bow and beam with gratitude for the privilege of witnessing it.