It's already long past departure time.  I'm standing near the gate, waiting for the inbound passengers to deplane. There's nowhere to go, and the plane will depart when it departs.  Even so, the passengers (including me) are beginning to huddle, as if our hovering will speed up the process.  We form a makeshift column, all of us wanting dibs on the precious above-seat-cargo-space.

Standing nearby, facing the now open jet-bridge-door, is a uniformed soldier.  He stands with nervous energy, conveying a restless and eager air.  He watches the door intently.  With him, a friend.  In his right hand he holds a large poster board sign, now hanging down by his side, hand stenciled in magic marker, "Welcome Home!  I love you!" 

Since he has been allowed to stand at the arrival gate (past airport security), it is evident that he is waiting for an "unaccompanied minor."  The passengers from the inbound flight spill from the doorway.  She is the final passenger to deplane, accompanied by a flight attendant.  Around her neck, a plastic packet hangs with her documents.  She is, perhaps twelve or thirteen, although still childlike with two perfect braids.  She scans the faces; sees her father, and her smile is radiant and luminous.

There is a moment.  A pause.  And she catapults herself into his wide-open arms.  His hand-lettered sign has dropped from his hand to the floor, now immaterial, and as his daughter leans into his chest, he clutches her tightly and kisses her head.  Those of us lucky enough to witness this scene know the healing power, and blessedness of this embrace. 

No.  We do not know their entire story.  How long since their last visit?  Why have they been separated?  Has he been deployed and in "harm's way?"  Does she live in another state, unable to frequently visit her father?

But this we do know: Every single one of us in that departure lounge wished to be in that embrace. 

Here's the deal: in that embrace, the little girl was at home.

Which begs the question: When do you know that you've come home?

There is a similar story (about an embrace) told in the Gospel of Luke.  A young man leaves home in order to explore and experiment.  And "find himself."  It doesn't turn out like he planned.  He squanders his inheritance and his opportunity, and lives penniless.  So he decides to return--full of shame and regret--willing to be his father's servant, as some kind of penance.  And then this sentence; "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him." 
His Father's reaction?  Wrath? 
Hardly.  Just the opposite.  His father throws a party.  He calls for rings on his son's fingers, shoes on his feet, and says: "Kill the fatted calf, and let us eat and be merry. My son was dead, and he's alive, was lost, he's found." And they do indeed have the best of all parties, with music and dancing and everything else necessary for merriment.

In real life, it doesn't always turn out this way.
A fifth grade boy (in a Texas school) wrote about his "very first dad."

I remember him

like God in my heart, I remember him in my heart

like the clouds overhead,

and strawberry ice cream and bananas

when I was a little kid.

But the most I remember

is his love,

as big as Texas

when I was born.
His teacher explained, "He's not a very good student, although he tries.  But he's never done anything like this (the poem) before."  She went on, "He never even knew his real father.  The man skipped town the day the boy was born."
 
Even so.  In all of us, there is a yearning.  A hunger. 
A need to know that we count. 
That we matter.   

So we scan the "crowd" for that gaze. And the embrace that will follow.  

The embrace that tells us someone knows us, and sees us, and is willing to open their arms wide no matter what.   

Marilynne Robinson  

NOTE: (1) A Blessed Christmas and Hanukkah to you...  

 (3) Sabbath Moment will still arrive every Monday.