Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a hundred times.
Come, yet again, come, come.

-Rumi

“Come … wanderer,” God invites.

In what ways have I wandered?

The wilderness of parenting.

The jungle of marriage.

The labyrinth of religion.

Is wandering about being lost?

Or is it about looking for something new? Something about which I can’t say, “Oh, I knew that.”

Wandering leaves me wondering if I fit in, if I am still invited in.

You invite me in. “Come,” You say, “come wanderer.”

Yes, I am invited. Yes, I belong. Yes, there is a place for me, even—maybe especially—when I don’t fit in to the containers I used to fit in—the labeled Tupperware, the organized totes.

Now the pieces of me are less organized, but still You say, “Come,” and all of me comes even though I thought maybe the pieces were too scattered.

They are not. All of them respond to Your voice.

It is not my job to organize myself. Or to stop wandering. Everywhere I go, You meet me there.

If wandering has taught me anything, it is that You are everywhere.

“Come,” You say, and I am surprised to find You are standing right next to me. You are not calling from a great distance. “Come,” You say, “let us wander together. Show me something you’ve found here. And I’ll show you some things too.”

Wandering and loneliness are intertwined, and You and I, we are familiar with both.

“Come,” You say, and I know that You know this place, that You are no stranger to wilderness or jungle or labyrinth. These are Your kitchen, your garden, your cathedral.

“Come,” You say, and I know that I have always been home. For You are home to wanderers.