In Search of Home

by Deborah Akel

What is home? According to the dictionary, home can be a physical place, such as a house or a town. It can be a source; a refuge; or an environment which provides happiness and security. But the most common definition of home is simply, "The place where one lives."

I reside in a simple furnished efficiency in an old brick building in the heart of a big city. It's where I sleep, shower, answer the telephone and collect my mail. But it is not my home.

For me, home has never been a physical structure or a geographical location. It has always taken a human form. Home has always been my father and mother.

Most of my adult life, I lived far from home. The small city where I grew up and where my parents resided had little to offer, so I moved away to large urban centers, seeking job opportunities, culture, and the big-city lifestyle.

But at every opportunity, I went back to visit Mom and Dad. On holidays, vacations, three-day weekends, it was always understood that I was "going home." I took planes, trains, buses, and automobiles hundreds of miles just to feel their embrace and to experience the joy of family.

Between visits, I ran up hefty long-distance phone bills staying in touch. Home was where I called to talk about my day, to give and get advice, to feel connected. It was where those I loved, and those who loved me, resided. No matter what I did or where I went, home was the one thing that remained constant.

Until three years ago, when my parents left to be with God.

As I tried to pick up the pieces, I felt something vast was missing from my life. Something intrinsic. Something I could not describe. I grew to realize what that enormous void was. I'd lost not only my parents, I had lost my home.

I refer not to the house my parents lived in, which I'd never been terribly fond of. Nor to my hometown, a place I'd always thought of as dull. Home was neither of those things. It was that special bond between my parents and me - a bond that could not be replaced.

In the years that followed, I attempted to recreate a sense of home. But it eluded me. Holidays and time off became something to dread. Work seemed less meaningful. Friends grew distant and detached. I had lost my grounding, my reference point, my sense of belonging.

How does one recapture home? Some say we must create it amid our surroundings. Others argue we must seek it within ourselves. I've found both exercises to be extremely difficult.

I find the most truth in the old saying, "Home is where the heart is." Mine can be found among the memories of my parents; their teachings, their concern for my welfare, their pride in my accomplishments, their wisdom, their love. I may continue to inhabit my urban efficiency, but my heart - and home - are elsewhere.

Three years ago I lost my earthly home, but I'm comforted by the hope that a heavenly one awaits where I will once again feel my parents' embrace. Hebrews 13:14 (NLT) promises, "For this world is not our home; we are looking forward to our city in heaven, which is yet to come."

Author Bio:
Deborah Akel is a writer living in Washington, DC. Originally from Canton, Ohio, she has worked in tv news, writing, and political communication in San Francisco, Sacramento, Cleveland, and New York. She wrote this article in loving memory of her father David. Her website is http://home.earthlink.net/~creativewritingsvcs/

Jesus in the Thrift Shop

by Deborah Akel

Sometime around 1991, my mother asked me to write this story.

I was working as a writer for the president of an international marketing firm in Canton, Ohio. Mom was proud of me. Especially the day my car wouldn’t start, and my boss sent his personal chauffeur to our house to pick me up and take me to work. She thought I’d made the big time.

It was decided that I should write a story for her. All she had was a title: Jesus in the Thrift Shop. “Isn’t that a neat title for a book?” she announced excitedly.

“But what’s it about?” I asked. I had no idea where to begin. “It’s about Jesus in the thrift shop,” she replied, as if that should explain everything.

Mom liked to shop in thrift stores. She was always proud when she came home with a bargain. Even back in the day when it was embarrassing to be seen in a thrift store. Now it’s called “vintage” shopping. Mom was ahead of her time. She thrifted when it wasn’t trendy.

Mom believed that whenever she found an item she was seeking in a thrift store, Jesus was somehow behind it. “I was looking for a grey A-line skirt, and there it was!” she would say with childlike amazement and delight. “I’d been praying that I’d find a skirt just like it.” After several such finds, all of them attributed to prayer, she suggested that I write a book about the presence of Christ at Value Village.

Always the cynic, I pooh-poohed the idea. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom,” I chided. “God has more important things to worry about than your shopping list.” But no matter how many times I tried to burst her bubble, she never capitulated. She was convinced that Jesus had a hand in her thrifting triumphs.

Over the course of several years, Mom repeatedly asked me to write her book. But I never took her idea seriously. I thought it was foolish, and that there wasn’t enough material to make a good story. Besides, I was busy with my own life and didn’t have time to indulge her.

Mom went to heaven on October 30, 2002. It’s taken me nearly 15 years, but I think I finally understand the story she was trying to tell.

Jesus in the Thrift Shop. What a silly idea, I thought. Mom was forever trying to inject God and Jesus into every little happening in the course of a day. If she baked a loaf of bread and it came out perfect, it was God’s doing. If she found a dollar bill lying on the sidewalk, it was Jesus who had left it there for her. Nothing was too trivial to have been the result of divine intervention. And now she was trying to convince me that the Lord had hung that white blouse on the sale rack for her at the Next-to-New shop. I wasn’t buying it.

In my infinite wisdom of youth, I often viewed my mom as a sort of simpleton. Gullible, unsophisticated, fanatical. While I’m politically liberal and open-minded about philosophy and religion, Mom was as conservative as they come and rigid in her beliefs. We had many clashes over our disparate views. Once I subscribed by mail to a Zen journal, and discovered that she was secretly throwing it away before I had a chance to read it. Tampering with the U.S. mail is a felony, but Mom thought it was a greater crime to allow me to travel down what she thought was the wrong path.

In the three years since she’s been gone, I’ve had time to reflect on who my mother was and what she stood for. I’ve been able to remove myself from the equation and look at her not in relation to me, but as an individual. And I’m continuously amazed at what I’m learning about her.

Above all, she was a woman of unshakeable faith. Many of her beliefs were unpopular, and she was often criticized for being inflexible, unrealistic, or out of touch with society. She may have been all of those things, but I’ve come to respect her for standing up for her convictions.

Her strict interpretation of the Bible meant that her lifestyle left no room for pleasures that most of us take for granted. She never knew the feeling of giddiness from being drunk; the thrill of sex with a new partner; the excitement of casino gambling. But she also never suffered the anxiety of wondering what life is about. She knew exactly who she was and where she was going. And she wasn’t afraid to go there.

As it turns out, my mother was not a simpleton. She was smarter and braver and more together than anyone gave her credit for. She loved the Lord and saw his handiwork in everything - even in her successes at the thrift stores. That was not foolishness. That was faith.

The story that she so wanted me to tell was that God is everywhere, in everything, and we should acknowledge and be grateful for it. He’s in that perfect loaf of bread, or that dollar lying on the sidewalk, or the ray of sunlight that shines through your window. He’s in the biggest and the smallest of things. He’s with you and in you and around you, and if you believe in Him, you’ll find him. Jesus was in those thrift shops with my mom, just as she is with him now, walking down streets of gold in heaven.

Author Bio:
Deborah Akel, Author Deborah Akel is a writer living in Washington, DC. Originally from Canton, Ohio, she has worked in tv news, writing, and political communication in San Francisco, Sacramento, Cleveland, and New York. She wrote this article in loving memory of her mother and father. Her website is http://home.earthlink.net/~creativewritingsvcs/

This article © Deborah Akel - Used with permission.

The Gift That Keeps Giving

by Deborah Akel

Christmas gift-giving can be a trying experience. Shopping for just the right gift for everyone on your list requires much thought. What do they need? Is it the right size, color, and style? What about the quality? The long lines at the stores for returns the next day prove just how challenging it can be.

And after all that effort, how long will your purchases really last? In today’s world of disposables, planned obsolescence, and ever-changing trends, it’s rare to receive a gift that lasts more than a few seasons.

For these reasons, Christmas presents at our house were sparse. To my perennial disappointment, my parents weren’t much into buying gifts. They had no patience for the whole process. My father especially lost interest when everything started being manufactured in China. Dad was a proud veteran of World War II, and he didn’t like the notion of our goods being produced on foreign shores.

I recall one Christmas, after some gentle prodding, he agreed to buy me a robe, but on two conditions. First, I had to pick it out. If he was going to buy it, he didn’t want any guesswork. Second, it had to be American-made. Simple enough, I thought. So together we went to the local mall, trudging from store to store, in search of a robe made in the U.S.A. Dad pored through the racks, scrutinizing every label: Made in China. Korea. Cambodia. Vietnam. (That one really perplexed him.) Surprisingly, there wasn’t one to be found. In each store, he confronted the sales clerks and asked why they had no robes made in the United States. I was frustrated and embarrassed, but he persisted. It was really important to him, and he wanted to make his point.

That Christmas, I didn’t get a robe. But I got a different sort of gift -- a subtle, unexpected one that doesn’t wear out, become obsolete or fall out of fashion: the gift of understanding that it’s important to take a stand for your beliefs.

My father was always a man of strong principles. He’d go to great lengths to argue his case if he thought something was wrong or unfair. As a teenager, I often viewed him as stubborn, difficult, and even embarrassing at times. But now, with the wisdom of age and experience, I see him in a different light.

Through his commitment to his values, he taught me an important lesson that day at the mall. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it influenced me deeply. Now as an adult, I, too, am compelled to speak out when I feel something isn’t right. So much so that I chose a career around it. The values I speak out for may in some cases be different from his, but it’s the commitment to them that matters.

Sometimes the gifts we receive from others are not wrapped in paper and bows. They are not manufactured, bought or sold. They are the gifts of teaching by example, of inspiring and motivating, of passing on lessons of living. After the flurry of the holidays has come and gone, these are the gifts that endure.

I may have been shortchanged at Christmas when it came to getting presents. But my father gave me a gift much more precious and lasting than anything he could have bought at the store. Top quality, perfect fit, and no exchange or return needed. He gave me strength of character and conviction. A belated thank-you, Dad.

Author Bio:
Deborah Akel is a writer living in Washington, DC. Originally from Canton, Ohio, she has worked in tv news, writing, and political communication in San Francisco, Sacramento, Cleveland, and New York. She wrote this article in loving memory of her father David. Her website is http://home.earthlink.net/~creativewritingsvcs/