Going Home

My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. --John 14:2-3.

It's hard to say at times which side of the Atlantic my heart most resides. Of course, my heart is wherever my wife and sons are, but there are deep connections to this country called Latvia that still draw my heart to take up residence, if in spirit and wonderful memories only.

I want to finish out my blogging of my journey back to Latvia by sharing specifically about the last full day. If you're like me, you connect music with places and events. For some reason, the theme from "My Dog Skip" seems to capture the sweetness of our days spent in Latvia when our family lived there and my boys were growing up in that little white house on Drustu iela (street). I invite you to click on it and play it as you read this section in order to capture the moment and know something of my feelings as I traveled back to that house.

Bob Adams awoke early to meet his taxi at 5:00 a.m. and begin his journey back to the U.S. and his family. He would not be traveling back to New Orleans, but to Michigan to be with his eldest daughter, along with her family, and Bob's wife, Janice. He had experienced something in this journey that he knew he could not fully and adequately express to his wife and children, but nevertheless, he was ready to make his way home to be with him and be next to his daughter as she came home from the hospital. By the way, the cancer was contained and this was a great answer to prayer.

After Bob was gone, I began my day by walking back through Riga's old city just as I used to do when I lived there. I needed to let its history seep into me once more before I left. This trip had made a big impact on me. In some ways, it had been a difficult trip because of the ways I knew my friends there were hurting. The economic and political situation there has so devastated lives that even some of my friends speak of the necessity of leaving their homeland in order to find work and provide a future for their families. Then there is our dear friend, Austra, whom we refer to as our "Latvian grandmother" or "Vecmamina." Austra is the same age of my mother who passed away in 2001. Austra loves our family as if we were her own, and in turn, we love her as part of our family. I met Ausrtra for lunch at the old Laima (Latvian chocolate company) clock. This is traditionally the rendevous point for Latvians. We walked to one of the Lido restaurants noted for their wonderful Latvian food and as we walked, Austra began to share with me the weightiness of the Latvian plight from the perspective of a pensioner. Her great fear is that the government will no longer be able to pay her pension and she will have nothing. Her other great fear is one of historic proportion from those who suffered and endured 50 years of occupation under the Soviets. She fears that Latvia will once again become so vulnerable that they will fall into the hands of the Russian government. Who knows if either of these fears are well-founded, but I listened to her as she shared these things and my heart grew heavy.

We enjoyed our lunch together, then walked to the bus stop. I told her I would ride with her as far as Alganskalns, where she would get off to make her way home. I would ride on to the neighborhood where I had lived with my family. I wanted to visit some friends there. Austra kissed my cheek and held my face in her hands as she looked at me, told me she loved me as her own son, got off the bus and then stood next to my window and pressed her hand up next to the glass. I touched the glass where her hand rested as if to say, "You are always in our hearts." Suddenly, I realized again how strong these people are. Though they may express their concerns, it does not reflect the faith and strength with which they move and seize life. The bus rolled slowly down the road until I reached my stop. The words came over the speaker on the bus--ones I had heard so many times before, "Bruklenu iela." I got off and made my way down the street on foot as though it were still part of my daily routine.

As I turned the corner, off in the distance I could see the rooftop of our old house above the fence line. I walked there, not sure if I really wanted to see how it looked. The last few times I had visited it was still not sold, but sat abandoned and looking very forlorn. This time would not be much different. Word was that it had been sold, but there was still no sign of life there. The fence had been repaired, but the house looked empty and did not have the appearance of being cared for. The yard had been cleaned up, which was an improvement over the last time. That was good because it had been difficult to look at knowing how much time we had spent in making the yard a setting for our home.

I peered over the fence and suddenly all of the memories came rushing back to me--memories of two young boys climbing apple trees, swinging on that swing beneath one of those apple trees, playing catch with gloves and a baseball, building a clubhouse out of our old crates with their friend Andris, whom they affectionately called, "Arbuzs." I thought of a Miniature Schnauzer we called, "Heidi" running happily through the yard, while Janet would be working in her garden. I remembered the boys flying up and down the streets on their bikes, or building forts in the yard out of the snow. I thought of the amazing Christmases spent in that house, the love, and the laughter. I remembered caroling up and down these streets--something both strange and full of wonder to our Latvian neighbors. And I thought of quiet moments standing out in the snow at night in that yard, being able to see everything as though it were daylight because of the brightness of the white, reflecting from the earth's surface. There is nothing quite so incredible as the quietness of a thick blanket of snow.

What was I meant to receive from these moments of flashbacks? What message was God relaying to me as I stood replaying such a serene time of my life? I couldn't help but thank Him for this place, that time, my family, and a circle of rich friendships and relationships with the neighbors who lived around us and didn't seem to mind that we were Americans, but treated us more like family. Anna, who would hand me a bouquet of flowers from across the fence from out of her garden. They were meant to give to Janet, whom she knew would use them to grace our table as an expression of her love. Maris and Inara, who would come weekly to speak Latvian with us and let us practice and destroy their language. They never missed. We cherished this time with them each Tuesday evening. Ligita, who always met us with a warm smile and a cheerful greeting--so gracious and giving. Then there was Andris who never was lacking with a joke. Oh, how that kid could make me laugh. Our boys adored him and looked up to him like a big brother. Trey knew him as his best friend and the bond is strong between them to this day as they speak of one another from out of some very happy moments in their childhood.

You are gracious to me, oh God. How you have expressed Yourself through the lives of these and in this humble setting. How You have graced the lives of our sons and given them an upbringing that is filled with wonder. How you have extended Your love to us in richness that cannot be replaced. I admit--it's hard to go back and remember, not because the memories are painful, but because we never wanted that time in our lives to end. Nevertheless, You use moments like these to remind us that our lives are but a mere vapor and You have called us to the purpose of making You known so that one day we will stand before You in the place that You have prepared and that day will be a reality unlike any we have ever known. It will be filled with unending joy. Those whom we have loved will encircle our lives and we will never have to say, "goodbye" again.

I stepped onto the plane early the next morning not knowing what the future would hold--whether I would return again to my beloved Latvia. My plans are to return, but only God really knows. Nevertheless, I rest with the assurance that the future truly is in His hands and He has worked a marvelous and indelible mark onto our lives by His hand through such a wonderful people. It continues on today. They're hurting right now. They seem to need us more than ever. I yearn to be with them and yet God reminds me that His yearning is that I would come to His side, walk with Him, and talk to Him about them. He has it all in hand. He wishes to give them comfort and assurance even as He assures me that He will never turn loose of them, but is there as their constant companion and guide. He is God and anywhere He is . . . I am going home.