I call Paris my second home, though technically I’ve never lived there.
I queue like a Brit.
I (often) dress like a Swede.
Some days I sound like an Aussie.
I am overly polite which runs true of most people raised in Canada.
I like spicy food like an Argentinian and have the temperament of a Latina running through my blood.
I have the sensibilities of a German, obsessively strict with time and leaning on the side of OCD.
My heart is ripped into pieces, travelling quite literally to the corners of the earth with each family or friend who takes it with them as they bid me adieu.
When I am sad or want to celebrate Whatsapp, FaceTime are my mecca.
And Fika has become the connection point of my daily life.
I am have a home. I have books (apparently this means I am settled).
I have a permanent job.
And yet, wherever I am standing, I always refer to where I am not as home.
I’m not nomadic. Nor am I crazy.
My heart, the one torn into pieces makes home many places.
And I am okay with that.
I understand that not everyone will understand.
I get that my life my seem strange to some.
And while my personality would love to please everyone, I know that it’s okay that I won’t.
Wherever I am, there is always an open door, a free bed to sleep on. My life will never stop moving, even when the “settled” seasons of my life begins. I long for adventure, to touch every aspect of the globe. My YouTube history would divulge my secret obsession of constantly learning about other cultures, maybe my Netflix account would too.
I know there are others out there whose hearts sing similar songs, and one whose song matches mine. For others, we may sound off-key, and that’s okay, because there songs sound like nails scratching on a chalkboard to me.
I will likely never be in a place I call home, because where my heart is, that is home.
Where God leads me, where he places me or takes me away from, all home. He guides my soul to long for Him, for new places, for new people.
What’s your song?
