whilst sitting in the airport

I'm going to Rome–
farther from home–
but where is my home anyway?
Is home where I live,
or home what I give,
when I offer a safe place to stay?
It could be an ear
that I offer to hear
the wandering train of a thought
of a wandering soul,
who like me is made whole
by seeing, themselves, they are not.
It could be a hand
when too tired to stand
or an arm when too tired to walk.
It could be my eyes
to see through the lies,
clear the sand, build a home on the rock.

The tentmaker went.
His last months he spent
in the city where I will soon fly.
In a house, under lock,
he was stuck in one spot.
But he knew he'd go home when he died.
The tentmaker stayed.
He wrote and he prayed,
living and giving a place
to stay and be blessed
by God's full peace and rest
and to go with the strength of His grace.