Over the summer, there were a few big events that marked the journey: A family trip to Hong Kong in June; a 10th anniversary trip with Carolyn to Belize in July; and in August, I took solo trips to the West Coast and back to Hong Kong.

But in between all that, there were rhythms of daily life. Planning meals, cooking, getting a bit more exercise, catching up on sleep, the usual pickups and drop-offs from summer camp, the inevitable home repairs, checking in with friends and family. I spent a lot of time reading, reflecting, grieving, and celebrating. And perhaps most importantly, I had some much-needed, unhurried time with God.

My theme was “A Journey Home.” Home has been an important motif throughout my life—seeking it, missing it, making it. I structured my sabbatical around people and places who had been home to me. And while the plan mostly went as I expected, God, as God often does, took me deeper than I could’ve ever imagined.

This summer, I was reminded that no matter where I find myself, I can be at home—because God is with me. In Hong Kong, I reconnected with old friends (including one of my best friends from high school who remembered when I requested a song on the radio for my crush). I visited old sites and took old rides with new people, stepping back into the place I had lived the longest, now worn down a little but still filled with love and God’s grace. To be with family and my own kids in my hometown. And, more than anything, to be more assured than ever that Carolyn, my wife, is the deepest embodiment in a person of home for me—and that is a gift and a grace.

In Belize, I was struck by the beauty of God’s creation—this world we’ve been given to steward. I saw the natural landscape and the creatures of the sea, and I saw how people have built their lives amidst it all, some in luxury, some in poverty. And in those moments, I was reminded that our task here on Earth is to care for it, to steward it, to reign as God would. But also, I felt the birth pangs of a world longing to be made new. We see it in Gaza, in Ukraine, in the groans of the creaking American empire, in ever increasing inequality.

Yet, even in the struggle, there’s hope—hope in solidarity, in people coming together to push for something better. The weeds and the wheat grow together, but we can still do our part to pluck out the weeds where we can.

Even in the quieter moments at home in DC, I was reminded of what it means to simply be present with my family. In just ten months, this city will be the place I’ve lived the longest. And in those everyday moments—watching Daniel try his hand at soccer and dance camp, seeing Katherine grow more independent as she starts school—I found peace. I found joy. I took a break from the weight of ministry, took time to cook, to exercise, to care for the home God has given me, both in this body and in the brick-and-mortar place on Neal Street.

The unexpected twist of my sabbatical—though I guess not really unexpected if you know how God works—was that “A Journey Home” was how it ended: another trip back to Hong Kong after my dad had an unexpected fall, and my brothers and I took turns to support our parents as my dad was hospitalized. It was the longest stay I’ve had there in almost 25 years. To care for the ones who brought me into the world and brought me up in the world. Who did so flimsily and imperfectly but as best they could. For whom gratitude abounds and yet prayers too, because 42 years with them—and even hours and hours every day for three weeks—still isn’t enough for me. 

Throughout the summer, I was able to carve out moments to reconnect with God in ways that were more primal, more foundational to my own story—in Scripture, in prayer. There was one day in July where I tried singing along to worship music, and I was overcome with emotion. Music has always been a deep, early way I’ve connected with God. But over the years, it became professionalized, part of my ministry. And what I needed this summer was a detox—to rediscover God outside of ministry.

These past months were not what I expected. There was more grief, more helplessness, more tears than I anticipated. But there was also laughter. There was joy. There was wonder. And I’m learning that that’s okay. It’s okay to laugh even when you’re still carrying some pain. It’s okay to wonder while still holding on to responsibility. To feel the joy and the weight of following Jesus in this world.

Home, for me, is wherever God is. And that means home is wherever I am—because God is with me. Both the final destination and the companion along the way.

I’m deeply grateful to God, to the Lilly Endowment for their grant, and to all of you, my church, for allowing me this opportunity. There will be more lessons, more stories to share in the weeks and months ahead. But for now, I just want to say—thank you. Thank you for being my home too.