Across the river, a boy stands still. He is home for summer vacation, but there is no smile or excitement. No rush to run inside. He just looks afar at the house waiting for him on the other side: a plain, unpainted brick house, a fishing net hanging in place of a proper door, and trash piled beside the wall.

This is one of the opening scenes of the Malayalam movie, Kumbalangi nights. Franky, the youngest boy in the family, has returned from his hostel. When he finally enters the house, everything feels disorganized and abandoned. He slouches onto the couch, and his eyes catch a picture of Mother Mary hidden away on a wall shelf.

As the movie unfolds, we begin to understand that the house has no real parental presence. His older brothers are wounded in their own ways and disconnected. They are aimless and simply surviving.

Later in the movie, after grief, mishaps and unexpected turns, there is a scene where the eldest brother rows his canoe, bringing home with him his dear friend’s widow, who had just given birth to a newborn child. This time, the house is not empty, but there is a whole family waiting outside to receive her. With a white veil over her hair holding her infant, like Mother Mary arriving with newborn Jesus into a broken home that no one wanted.

Even after so many years, this movie holds a dear place in my heart. It makes me wonder what makes a place home? Is it a clean space? A functional family? A stable income? Is it a house where everything is in order and where no one is wounded.

Living in a city like Philly, away from my own home for the past four years, has taught me about longing. During my time here, I was fortunate enough to experience friendships that made me feel at home through conversations, laughter and prayers.

Almost two years ago, on Christmas Eve, my friends and I returned to the city after Mass. I had not gone home for Christmas that year. Even though I was surrounded by friends, I felt the absence of home more deeply. At that time, I also did not have a job or a stable income. Beneath the joy of Christmas, I remember carrying a quiet fear inside me of not knowing what was next. It was already midnight, but none of us wanted to go to sleep. My friends suggested that we watch the Nativity episode from The Chosen, portraying the birth of the Messiah through the eyes of a shepherd.

Like Franky’s broken house in Kumbalangi Nights, the shepherd knew what it meant to be pushed aside and feel unworthy. On Christmas night, he sits alone by the stream washing the cut on his arm after the others refused to share their dinner with him. The water is cold and the darkness is vast around him. Nearby, the small fire get blow out by the wind. Then a ray of light shone in his direction. The other shepherds near the tents fall to their knees and shield their eyes with their hands. Stunned by what has just happened, the shepherd runs toward the light, still limping and hungry.

After watching the episode, I wanted to see Christmas lights. So when my friends suggested a light night drive to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, it sounded perfect. It was past midnight when we got to the small quaint town. But when we arrived, there was almost nothing. No grand lights, just quiet streets.