Writing from: a little village in Buckinghamshire, between London and Oxford
Called: Horsley’s Green
And also: My childhood home and home again for the last few days
It was fourteen years ago the last time I called this place home, and over a decade since I’ve seen it.
Much is different. Much is the same.
The mud and fields of childhood, the sky as broad as the earth—so that even the trees reach up for it with more effort than the trees of other places.
They arch high overhead, pulling the ground up into hills beside the road, and gullies of leaves and wildflowers grow between.
Only God knows the topography of our inmost selves, but I have a feeling the landscape of my soul looks a lot like England. I’ve always thought of myself as a traveler, but maybe I’m just a homebody who was uprooted too early from the place I called home. I think perhaps most wanderers are made that way.
Heaven would have hard competition for my heart if we could see God and each other face-to-face in England.