I’m sitting in a cafe on 58th and Broadway, far from home. So far from home,… and yet. It’s Christmas time in New York, and I’m here for a quick turn-around visit, counted in hours. Breakfast this morning at a little scandinavian cafe. nothing fancy, but good good good. It brings to mind the picture-perfect holidays I remember from childhood. Northern Minnesota among strong, quiet Swedes, Norwegians, and Danes. And oh, the sight! Pine trees heavy laden with snow perched impossibly on feathery branches. Branches extended and bending to hold a weight, only possible because the snow fell flake by flake, gently, patiently. There’s something there of Christmas, besides the charming red wooden horses and tomte figurines, the pepparkakor and saffron-dyed buns. I’m far from home — the home of Minnesota, the home of Virginia, the home of the one I love farther still. Still, what is home? What is home?, especially in this time when the dominant story is of God (God!) determining to know what it is to be human, to be so far from home. Cast as a baby on the beautiful mercy of a small world. (A God to care for?!) Christmas to contemplate.
