Coming Home ~ The Grace Between

Coming Home

I’m warming myself in the stain-glass and wood-panel glow of my childhood church. Wherever we wander, coming home inevitably means coming here.

Today I’m lurking in the back row of the sanctuary during the Sunday school hour, soaking up the light. I hoard these precious seconds of alone time amid the whirling chaos of my three small humans.


We made covenent promises here … On the glossy wooden stage, I slipped my hands into his, threading my heart to the Husband in neat, tidy stitches meant to last a lifetime. They’ve been picked at, worried over, and stretched across the globe, but the line holds.

Six years ago the J Girl wore silk when we claimed her as a covenant child, then left her there, in that church, in that town.Assist in the nurture and admonition of a child” are sweet words to a still wounded mama who trusted the Body bear my sister up.

This morning, there are four men rehearsing on stage, singing Come Thou Fount. One of the four is my brother-in-law. His voice is a permanent thread in our memories, a soundtrack to the moments that tie us together. Today though, there are four voices pitch perfect, rising in harmony together and it sets my soul a-humming.

Tuning each piece of my weary heart to sing His grace. I’m still tired. I’m still afraid, most days. I struggle mightily over the raising up of my wee babes. I want my Husband home. But. But. 

I’ve said it once, more than a lot of onces … here I raise my Ebenezer. I’m still counting.

And truly this morning I am grateful for coming home, for a gift box of memories, and a four-part harmony.

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