Almost home

I thought that as you got older, things would make more sense.

My brain would grow, new synapses would form and my understanding of life in general would expand.

And I guess it has. I’ve learned a LOT in 38 years, probably the most in the last ten.

But things aren’t necessarily becoming clearer. All the facts that I thought I would be able to stand on forever are now a matter of opinion and perspective. Every year I live, I feel like there are fewer and fewer things I’m sure about.

I mean, when I was a little kid, I was sure about nearly everything:

1. My parents are perfect and love me perfectly.
2. This house is my home and I would live here forever if I could.
3. I love my room and there are fewer places I’d rather be.
4. There are good people and bad people (although I don’t really know any bad people).
5. Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny are as real as I am.
6. Rules are made to be followed, not questioned or broken.
7. Adults totally know what they’re doing.
8. I’m incapable of ever doing anything REALLY bad.
9. Your family consists of people you are related to by blood.
10. When I get married, I will settle down in one pIace and live happily ever after.
11. Jesus loves me.
12. The Bible is true.
13. Because I believe He died for my sins, I’ll go to heaven when I die.

Seriously, what else do you need to know as a kid?

There were always the kids at school who didn’t follow the rules, who didn’t trust the teacher. I did not understand that. In my perfect life, I had never met an adult that didn’t have my best interest at heart. Why WOULDN’T I do what they said?

There were always the kids on the playground who got great pleasure in going around telling people Santa wasn’t real. (I hated those kids.)

And I just assumed the above list of things I knew for sure would only grow longer as I got older.

Not so much, it turns out.

The peaceful, little black-and-white bubble I lived in gave way to a myriad of grays. As I discovered, few things were all good or all bad.

And nothing in this world is perfect. Nothing.

Thankfully I learned these lessons gradually and wasn’t traumatized by some big all-at-once revelation. Numbers 5, 8 and 10 were probably the most traumatic to realize.

I’m sitting here in the guest room of my sister’s house in Ocala. This house was my house at one point. My fifth house actually since college. This was Caroline’s room from ages 2 to 4.

My sister is across the hall, sleeping under a big pink comforter (in case there was any doubt if it was still my room).

The room that I grew up in at my parents’ house is now a closet, so I couldn’t sleep in there if I wanted to.

I am a nester, by nature. Wherever I am, I like to surround myself with things that feel like home. Even on roadtrips, if I’m not driving, I create a little nest in the passenger seat. Bag of snacks, bag of medicine (lest anyone start to feel carsick or need a bandaid), my backpack holding my laptop and whatever book(s) I’m reading at the moment, my music flowing through the speakers.

I have moved seven times since college and the idea of home being one place for my whole adult life is long gone. Home has actually become a very fluid concept, usually more focused on people than a place.

Our kids are growing up as nomads. Children of divorce have two homes they move back and forth between, although I often wonder if either ever really feels like home, or just a place to keep their stuff and sleep.

The most home I can enjoy now is glimpses of the one final Home I am moving toward.

Andrew Peterson is my favorite musician/singer/songwriter. His songs resonate deeply with me and he sings honestly of his shortcomings, his need for Christ, his worry for his children, the oh-so-normal struggles of marriage.

I’ve gotten to hang out with him a few times. He is honest about his vulnerabilities, a bit of a music snob and eternally thankful for what he does for a living.

I got to talk to him briefly the other night after a performance. I told him who I was and he politely pretended to remember. But I looked him right in the eye and told him exactly what his music means to me:

“I just want to thank you again for what you do. Because no matter where I go, your music feels like Home.”

His eyes got big and he squirmed uncomfortably under such a heartfelt compliment. I didn’t care. He needed to know on his bad days that somewhere out there, other people are having bad days and his contribution to the world brings them hope.

And so I have redefined home, much like I redefined family. There is only one Home left for me. More places to live while I’m here, to be sure. But Home now lies on the other side of this life.

But God is so good, He gives me glimpses of that Home while I’m here.

Andrew Peterson’s music.
My house in Orlando when all the kids are home.
In the presence of dear friends daring to be real with each other.
In the beauty of nature (when I slow down enough to notice).
In church when the words of the hymn come from my heart as well as my voice.
Reading the Bible and suddenly seeing something new.
When I put down my screens and live my life, instead of watching it.
When other believers gather to pray over another.

All whispers of a Home I’ve never seen, but grow more anxious for every passing moment.

One of Andrew’s songs includes these words:

When you lay me down to die
I’ll open up my eyes on the skies I’ve never known
In the place where I belong
And I’ll realize His love is just another word for Home

I believe in the holy shores of uncreated Light
I believer there is power in the Blood
And all the of death that ever was, if you sat it next to life
I believe it would barely fill a cup

The list above is certainly not an exhaustive list of the absolute facts I believed as a child. I have an obnoxious and sometimes unhealthy ability to believe things just because I want to.

But guess what. Numbers 11 through 13 on that list have withstood many a challenge and doubt and remain indisputable facts in my soul. His love is just another word for Home.

This afternoon, I will attend the funeral of my friend who died suddenly last week. Her life here sparkled and shone as much it could in this world. But now she’s Home. Her final Home that she never has to leave.

(If you get there before I do
Comin’ for to carry me home
Tell all my friends I’m comin’ too
Comin’ for to carry me home)

Her life there more alive than her best day on earth. And her faith and hope were left here with her earthly body and those of us who love her. Because she doesn’t need them anymore. Faith and hope are only necessary while we’re here. She is now looking directly at the Subject of her former faith and hope.

And she knows. She is Home.