For quite a while now, when I first kneel down in church I find my heels clicking together as my toes rest on the floor tiles. In the strange way that memory and imagination work together, I am taken to Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. She clicks her heels together with those amazing ruby slippers on her little feet, and repeats, “There’s no place like home!”, over and over.
Then in the way that intellect takes over from there, instead of banishing the thought as unworthy of this sublime setting, I immediately agree. Yes! There is no place like home. And this is home. This is where my restless heart finds its truest home, here in the presence of The One who gives us the only gift we should ever desire and the truest place of rest.
So, I click and smile and give thanks when I kneel down before Mass, but lately there is another unbidden thought that follows.
There are so many people, in my acquaintance and not, who have no clue about this Home, this Guest, this rest. My heart goes out to them, the true homeless, and they are legion. Then, of course, follows my prayer.
It reaches the pinnacle of desire as the priest elevates the host. “I believe for those who do not believe. I love for those who do not love. For all the homeless Lord, have mercy!”