Sunday, March 20, 2005

Thankful

I'm sitting on my bed, back in my room in Geneva, listening to Ludovico Einaudi. His piano pieces are so soothing. Last time I listened to him was when I was in Starbucks earlier on this week, sipping a caramel macchiato, lost in the maze of answering a question on whether the rise of individual morality has affected our community or not. It's been a month since I've been home, but it feels like I never really left. My dog still boosts my ego when welcoming me back with her jumping crazes - who trained her anyways? She should know better not to jump on people. I catch my parents in the middle of yet another crazy adventure; this time they're about to drive to Vienna, to move stuff into the appartment they have there (sentimental affections tied to Vienna - the place where they met - justifies their crazy idea, I try to tell myself). My house still smells the same, I know I'm home.

But today the garden isn't covered with a blanket of snow - a sight I find particularly appeasing to the soul. It's already time for pistachios and wine in the garden, sitting around sharing pictures and stories, especially for my sister having come back from Thailand. I've already had the chance to hear most of the stories and even though I can't fully relate or understand, the glow in her eyes makes me want to share the excitement with her all over again. I feel a bit torn, even though that's a bit too strong of a word to use, when thinking about my family evolving from a bound nucleus to each of us kids taking our own paths, following in the footsteps of who God intended us to be.


But today the five of us are together; my family as I've known it for the most of my life. My brother is back from his baseball championships. My sister, from Thailand. And me, I'm back from quaint Canterbury. I'm so glad that this is home.

Enter His gates with thanksgiving
and His courts with praise;
give thanks to Him and praise His name.
For the Lord is good and His love endures forever;
His faithfulness continues through all generations.
- Psalm 100:4-5

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