When I was growing up, we used to go to the United Methodist Church in town. I recall being frustrated about “Sunday School”. I preferred being at the service with my parents for some reason. To this day. Something about it just felt right.

Decades later, sitting in Sundy mass with my kids, I felt this tug. It felt like the service was shrinking in around me. Like I was the only one there and the priest was speaking directly to me.

With His voice.

Not just one Sunday. But every single one.

Maybe that was the sensation I felt when I was a kid, sitting there with mom and dad.

That tug.

Being called.

So I followed.

And was baptized a second time and confirmed.

I lost my way a few years back.

Headed towards a lonely, desolate, painful place of isolation and regret.

But He remained patient.

Left the light on.

Tugged.

And hugged me upon my return.

Thank you God.

I finally found where I needed to be all this time.

That inkling I had as a child remained all my days, leading me to the one place I had always craved.

Home.