I'm Home Again...In Madera California

We left the city of angels Saturday night with the intent of finding somewhere free to sleep. This word has become even more appealing to me on this trip as we learn to stretch our budget further than we expected. Going north from LA toward Yosemite National Park put us back in the, yup you guessed it, desert. We finally found some semblance of civilization in the form of a Pilot Travel Center in the booming metropolis of Madera California—population 18,000. On a side note, I’m gonna give you guys a free tip for any future road trips…truck stops are amazing. When you can find them, Pilot, Love’s or any other of the big truck stop chains are a great place to park for the night and get an “alright” FREE night’s sleep. If you can deal with the sound of truck engines and the glare of neon lights through your windows, no one will really mess with you for the whole night. Contrary to popular belief (and maternal belief), truck stops are not ultra-dangerous havens for criminals and “ladies of the night.” Mostly, there are full of normal people catching a break from the open road. And did I mention they are FREE?

The next morning, after a night of “sleep” rolled up in my sleeping bag in the passenger seat of the van, we decided to look for a church. We found a small, adobe style church off some desert road. I actually don’t remember the name of the church, but I do know it was an Evangelical Free Church. We wandered in right in time for the service and sat on a row by ourselves as the obvious visitors. We stood out even more because the church consisted of mainly 2nd and 3rd generation Hispanic immigrants (like much of California.) I honestly thought we would just leave and get right back on the road after church, but I was so wrong. Almost the whole church gathered around us, asking us questions, telling us about themselves, and making sure we knew Christ. These believers wanted to know all about where we were coming from, and all about where we were going. A little lady named Nina Torres came up and asked if we had lunch plans, and we very quickly assured here that we did not! We met her husband, her 6 kids, and Tony—the boyfriend of one her daughters. On our way out of the church to follow Tony to the house, we were offered more places to stay at by other brothers and sisters (too bad we had reservations at Yosemite that night!)

We ate lunch and spent much of the afternoon with the Torres family—laughing, sharing stories, and enjoying our connection with Christ. I was home. To explain what I mean by this, let me take you back to the night at Bottomless Lakes State Park that I wrote about in The Bittersweet Beauty of The West. Luke and I were talking about home. For me, the issue of home has always been complex and never been secure. I have often felt like a man without a proper “home” or proper “roots.” These feelings have been further aggravated by my years spent in the south—a land proud of tradition, family, and stability. A couple of years ago, I started to ask some important questions. “What is home?” “What makes home, home?” “Does home have to be a place, or can it be something else?” “Can home be an idea?”

Travel also aggravates confusion about home. As Luke and I sat and talked under those New Mexico stars, I had a small epiphany. My home is the church. Yes, I know that my home is in heaven. We are aliens and strangers here as we await the perfection. Meanwhile, as I remain here, behind enemy lines, I find home with my brothers and sisters. We are the homeless army of the redeemed, following hard behind the most famous homeless man in history.

Jump back to Madera California. Here I am eating bologna sandwiches and hanging out with my new brothers and sisters. I am home. I am just as at home as I am at home at 489 Moores Xing, Roebuck SC. (No hate mail please.) I am just at home as I am at home at G-12, North Greenville University. The beauty of this idea of home is you can find it EVERYWHERE! It was so refreshing to find a haven from the open road with some brothers and sisters. It was so refreshing to feel like I belonged somewhere.

So this post goes out to the Torres family, and Tony. Thanks for reminding me that I’m a part of something much bigger than myself.