I can see the porch from here, but unclear
is my sight; I am yet too far away
but close enough to hear
the cadence and the knocking
of a rocking chair
tugging at my longings.

Rocking chair leaning,
its forward-arc reaching,
inviting me Home,
and I ache.

Rocking chair swinging,
its backward-arc luring,
drawing me to Rest.

Dust on dust, I walk the earth
just close enough
to hear the clockwork
rhythm of the rocking.

It is calling, keeping time.
Keeping time.
I will come
when it is time.

Our longings, those workhorses, those servants of God, faithful and incessant, come for a purpose. They buck and heave, whinny and snort, as they harrow our hearts. They endow and enlarge the soul to desire and receive God. Their muscles bunch and strain as they keep us moving toward Home.

– Jean Fleming, The Homesick Heart

(This poem originally posted August 18, 2009.)


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