A Place to Call Home.

This afternoon as I sit at my desk making Christmas cards, there is a thin layer of snow outside, and the tiny flakes are softly rushing toward the earth as if they too are in a hurry to get things done, in a hurry for Christmastime. Yet still in the kitchen I've hung this foiled glass leaf, something my mother sent me a few years ago, which says, "Give thanks" in tiny sans-serif letters. It quietly reminds me to be thankful all month long, that there's still time before I fly home and rest in the comfort of family, that I still have another holiday first.

Thanksgiving is still a few weeks away. I still have no idea what we're doing for that day. A friend invited us over but it was simply too large a crowd for me to handle. We're hoping we'll find a way to host it in our apartment again, maybe have two or three friends over. We're also hoping that someone with a smaller family might invite us over, because it's likely we're too broke to buy green beans let alone a turkey.

But the thought of having people come over is just another reason to be thankful: I have a place to call home.

There's a traumatic story I'd like to tell, it happened just over a week ago. I was awake at midnight, writing something. My husband was already asleep. I heard someone come through the hall door outside our apartment, they were playing music or talking on the phone. It's pretty typical around here, so I didn't pay attention. But then the locked deadbolt was clumsily unlocked from the outside. Holly, who was cozily sleeping on my feet under the desk, trotted to the door and gave a warning "woof!" I flung myself at the door as well, began to say Joey's name, began to shout his name, began to scream his name. I pressed one hand on the door handle and the other on the wall in case I needed to brace myself against the intruder.

The man on the other side of the door paused, removed his key, and uttered in a tired but non-intoxicated way, "I musta gone to the wrong building."

I should tell you, there's no way to get into the wrong building, unless you have a master key. Clearly this was a maintenance man, or some other staff. I should also tell you, my husband had still not come to help me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not sharing this story to berate my husband online or tell you how awful he is. I had been gone all weekend, and Joey slept maybe 2 hours the entire time I was gone. He was so tired he didn't wake up at my screaming. And later, when I demanded that he come to the door, we had a small conversation during which he hugged me and comforted me but didn't remember it the next day because he was sleepwalking. (he did a lot of sleepwalking as a child. I'm not surprised it finally happened again, but the timing could not have been more disastrous.)

And despite all of that, I am thankful to have a place to call home. I'm thankful that we have security officers patrolling the property at all times and that the next day, after we called them, they actually came to our door to ask questions. (Yes, I know, I should have called them immediately.) I am thankful to have someplace to keep warm while it snows outside, that I have a bed to sleep in and a stove so that I can boil water for hot chocolate.

But I'm especially thankful today for the other "homes" I have--my family, which I can't wait to visit next month. My husband, who (regardless of involuntary sleep disasters) always protects me, at least when he's awake. And my home in heaven, which is probably still too far away to imagine, but I do look forward to it immensely.

End Day 11. Off to make more cards!