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Blog by Kristen Hicks

“Write a blog.” He said. I woke up one morning, this week, the same way I’ve been waking up for the past month. Anxious. Not the same anxiety that comes from living in the “what if” world of worry or the fear of the unknown. No, I woke up with feeling like there were so many things I need to get done. So many things I’m expected to do, except I’m being pulled in multiple directions, trying to balance, trying to do all the things well and to the best of my ability. Yet still, I feel like I’m half-hearted doing everything because that’s all I actually have to give. I am drained spiritually, mentally, physically, emotionally.

And I hate being a negative Nancy. I don’t like the fact that when someone asks me how I am, I have to pause. I want to lie about how I’m really doing because I don’t like not being ok. I’ve found myself doing that thing again when I wake up in the morning, I hide under my covers— hoping, praying, begging for something to change, for everything to just stop. At night, I have to watch something on TV until I can no longer hold my eyes open. Only then can my brain shut down enough to go to sleep. All signs pointing to the same thing, something is off. 

I’d carved out time to spend some good quality time with Jesus. It was the 3rd time this week I had been intentional with it. However, it kept leading to disappointment. Not because the Lord wasn’t meeting my expectations, but because I couldn’t seem to get past the walls I’d let build up. In busyness, I’d resorted to meditating on the verse of the day that the Bible app gives. For me, that is like thinking I can survive off a crumb while trying to run a hundred mile marathon. 

That morning, as I laid in bed under the covers, dreading the disappointment and unsure what to do about it, all the while making mental lists of what I needed to do that day, I heard the Lord say, “write a blog.”  Meaning, write it out. Which is why I’ve so bluntly started this blog. I always have to get out the mess before I can make sense of what’s really going on. 

So what’s really going on? I think I’ve lost my sense of belonging. It’s crazy to me how quickly seasons change and how opposite they can be. One minute, I’m living my life at the end of a dead end road, with a horse as roommate, always gasping at the sunset, and constantly being reminded to stop and breath just simply by the quietness and scenery around me, to living on the fourth floor of a community center that oddly resembles a Holiday Inn and never seems to sleep. Not one is better than the other. They are just different. Each having its own set of challenges. Each producing a different kind of fruit. 

Ever since I’ve moved into City Station, without a doubt, there is community happening, and all the aspects of family seem to be there because we are doing life together. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen and it’s beautiful in its own kind of way. But as I sit here and write this out, I realize something is missing in it for me. Home. I don’t know why this is shocking to me. This is student housing. It’s meant to be temporary. It’s meant to only be for a season. It’s not meant to be a place to actually rest and settle into. But for some reason, I expect it to be or rather I need it to be.

Home is different than a house. Although there are things about a house that feel like home— a swing on the front porch, a fire pit on the deck, a dining room table filled with people, a walk in the woods or down the road. These things remind me to breathe, remind me to be present, remind me of the importance of true connection. 

In the true sense of the word, isn’t that what home actually is? A place to breathe, a place to just be present in whatever you are doing, and truly connecting with people around you— whether that be in celebrating, crying, dancing, laughing, resting, or just being. It’s a place to truly let all the walls and guards that we have up come down. A place we can be ourselves without any kind of judgment. Now, I am aware that that isn’t an accurate picture for everyone. I’m not saying it was always that way for me either. But I think that is the intention of what Abba wanted it to be.

I was FaceTiming with my sister the other day. She was in Thailand, and she told me that she was learning the “art of home.” She said that she was learning to do things that she would normally do at home and practicing them wherever she was at. I had never thought about that before. That “home” could actually be a practice. I think it’s possible because it’s really the practice of belonging. Belonging is simply being and I think the practice comes in when we practice just being with Jesus. The One who knows us better than we know ourselves. The One who defines us. The One with Whom true identity is found, therefore true belonging. Not striving, not performing, not proving, not perfecting, just being. And letting Him into every single corner of our heart and life. Some of my favorite stories of Jesus and His disciples, are the ones found around a table, around a campfire, taking a walk, or just sitting, just being. It’s in those moments that He let them in on the secrets of the Kingdom. 

All I know is I miss Him. I miss doing life with Him instead of having to schedule in time with Him. Because He is where I find belonging. He is where I find myself. He is Home for me.