Wednesday, November 18, 2020

Homesick

When I was a little girl, I liked to go to my friend’s houses, but I loved my home.

The excitement of a new place wore off quickly, and I was left with a pit in my stomach.

 

I was homesick.

 

Homesickness is that empty ache that only stepping through your familiar front door can assuage.

 

I feel that ache now, in my living room, fire in the fireplace, rain pattering on my window.

I look outside to the windy world, and rather than feel secure in my warm house, 

I am anxious.

The storm is angry. Rain pummels the roof. Trees bend in the gales. 

A branch flies through the air.

It’s dangerous out there.

 

My gaze recedes to my reflection.

I see worry as water pounds the glass.

On my face, a familiar, persistent, empty ache.

 

I’m in my home, safe and sound. 

Lord, why?

 

Are you? He asks.

Are you home?

 

It’s not the storm that makes me anxious.

Our world is changing.

 

Lord, our world is changing.

 

I know, child.

 

Then I recognize that pit in my stomach.

It’s not the angst of my world spinning out of control, as I think it is.

 

It’s not.

 

I’m homesick.

 

I’ve clung too tightly to this place.

I associated heaven with death, not home.

Suddenly I remember,

This is not my home.

 

Home is where my father is and where my Father is.

Home is a place prepared especially for me.

 

When I was a little girl, heart longing for home,

A kind grown-up would let me call my mother.

We’d talk, and I’d feel a bit better.

“Make the most of your time with your friend,” she’d say.

“You’ll be home soon.”

 

My Father in Heaven says the same thing.

Your journey isn’t finished, dear child.

Share your gifts until I bring you home.


I remember the feeling of crossing the threshold of my home after a long weekend at camp or a sleepover at a friend's house.

I had fun with my friends,

But there was joy in returning home.


I feel it as an adult too.

I cherish visits with my children and now my grandson,

And journeys to new places.

But the satisfaction of dropping my bags on my floor, in my house,

And the comfort of breathing in the familiar scent, 

tearing off my coat and plopping onto the sofa--well, there's nothing like it.


What will it feel like to cross the threshold of my eternal Home?

It's a thought too wonderful to imagine.


My citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20).

 

For now, the ache will persist,

But the promise of Home is comfort.


Lord, help me to embrace the ache.

Use my gifts for Your glory all the days of my life,

Until I’m finally Home.

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