I’m standing on the front porch looking out into rain. It’s the day before we move. We’ve lived in the house for fifteen years—fifteen years of abundance, blessing, and a few heartaches.
There’s nothing luxurious about the house, but it’s comfortable. There’s room for entertaining, for our Home Group (a fellowship group from church), and whoever drops by (we are on the way to beach). I have a perfect office in a bonus room, and Janice uses one of the guest bedrooms for hers. Our architect daughter designed a sunroom known as “The J Room” because it’s Janice’s special room (although she shares it with her plants). It’s also a great place for intimate visits and chats.
When the grandchildren come, I take them to a place called The Eagle. It’s a gas station/store just off the interstate. Since we’re walking, we take a circuitous route to avoid the busy roads that includes cutting through a retirement village, the parking lot of a motel, going across two small bridges, past a drainage pond, through an undeveloped area, until finally we arrive at the back of the store. Once inside, the boys get one selection from the large candy section—my treat. When our other daughter’s thirtysomething boyfriend accompanied us, the youngest grandchild briefed him on the protocol, “We get a treat and UA (my grandfather name) pays for it. But you have a job, so you can pay for your own.” His father is in finance, so maybe that’s where that came from.
The pine trees are doing whatever it is trees do when rain falls on them—I can’t decide if it makes the rain louder or softer or what—I just know it’s peaceful and comforting and I need a little bit of that right now. Pulling up roots is never easy.
As I think about some of the good times we’ve had here, I remind myself that as wonderful as it’s been—it’s not my home. It’s just somewhere we’ve lived for the last decade and a half. We were blessed in it no doubt, but it’s not home. The place where we’re going (and it’s a fine place), won’t be home either.
Home is where our Father is. In this life, we’re really just moving from station to station. Some are undoubtedly more pleasant than others, some we stay at longer than others, but ultimately all are a sorry second to the true home that awaits us. I’m not despising anything in this—I’m simply trying to recognize the mountainous difference between the blessing and the One who gives the blessing. The first one is great; the Other is out of this world.
A thirty-six year old wife and mother of three we know was recently in Germany undergoing specialized treatments for the cancer she had been diagnosed with seven years before. While there, things took a turn for the worse. Extraordinary efforts overcame extraordinary obstacles and she was able to make it back to her family for her final days.
Then Saturday morning she went home. She didn’t just change stations, she went home to her Father.
It’s still sad for her husband and her children, and those who were close to her. But if you think about it, it’s only that way because they’re not home yet. I’ve no wish to minimize their pain or the realness of it—but to help us understand the root cause of it—the fact that we’re away from home. Humanity hasn’t been home since the garden.
I think the psalmist spoke for all hearts when he wrote, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage” (Psalm 84:5).
A Taste of Grace with Bruce Green 