I love the feelings we get when we hear the word "home." Hearts soften as familiar sounds and smells bring us back to where we truly belong.

Early this morning, driving through some small towns in South Jersey, I saw so many postcard-worthy scenes. Fields of corn reaching towards the cloudless sky, their stalks standing tall and proud. Acres of glorious sunflowers smiling, celebrating that they are in full bloom. Blueberry bushes and peach trees bearing sweet, plump fruit soon bound for farm stands. The silos, hay bales, and scent of cattle make this day feel so right for me.

Actually, home is the reason I'm driving through these farmlands. My close friend Shell is laying her mother Jean to rest today. At almost 90 years old, her mother was more than ready to go home. You see, for the past few years, Jean has gradually faded, just like summer's last flowers as they welcome Autumn. Her voice quieted, her gait slowed, and her memory came to a halt. While her heart seemed content, she lost recognition of her loved ones.

Many days held a challenge, but there were hidden blessings to be found in her decline. It was heartrending to watch Shell do all she could to maintain her mom's integrity and keep her content. She visited her mom regularly, combed her hair, and gave her manicures. When her mom seemed especially disoriented, Shell held her hand and reminded her she was so loved. On one occasion, her mother reached for Shell's hand and uttered the word "love." This moment served as an eternal, everlasting gift to live in Shell's heart forevermore. But for those looking in, the most significant gift of all was watching Shell's consistent efforts to make her mom feel like she was always where she belonged. Such beauty is found in belonging.

When Jean's final Autumn approached, she no longer swept the curtains towards the window frame to look out. Light still filtered in through the lace panels, but everything on the outside remained there. Seasons ceased, and the hands of time ticked slowly, without even a sound. While the roof, walls, furniture, and other belongings remained intact, there was a better home awaiting Jean.

As I continued winding down roads fringed with livestock fencing, I began to wonder what home is to others. My home is a place of survivorship. It is an old, circa 1861, colonial farmhouse with walls that have heard the boundless laughter of children at play. The random-width wooden floors tell a tale of their own, the comings and goings of generations passing from room to room, simply "doing life." The high ceilings offer echoes of tales long forgotten. Every windowsill bears a house plant; my soul thrives on witnessing new growth, and my hands need to touch the soil. From my kitchen flows the smell of home-cooked meals and fresh-baked breads. Once through the kitchen door, you are greeted by flower-filled cottage gardens and a handful of chickens running amok in their coop. This is the home where we raised our five children (talk about running amok!) They are grown and now have homes of their own. People ask when we will downsize; I answer that if we left this old farmhouse, my soul would simply die.

It's interesting, though, how funerals give us pause to wonder when it will be time for us to go to our final home. Our hearts were made to love; when will they be sufficiently filled with love? Our voices have tales to tell; when will we have said all we wanted to? Our souls were made to be sandpapered; when will we have assumed all the wisdom we were meant to gain? Mostly I wonder how will we know if we have made a difference?

Then, as I arrived at the service for Jean, it came to me. While it seemed for so long that she lingered in her own world, she actually played an ongoing, essential role. While all that made her "Jean" was erased from the blackboard, she took on the role of teacher. In her silence, she schooled so many on the power of patience, facing our fears with courage, and, best of all, leaning into the unknown while holding onto the faith that has been a part of us for so long.

Through Jean, we gained grace and learned that letting go is a challenging lesson we all learn throughout life. Our loss was God's gift. As she drew her last breath, the table was set and the candles were lit. The heavens welcomed a beautiful soul...