Homesick

Bizarre as it seems, I do not like to travel.

Some people don't care where they sleep.  I do.  I have a strong preference for my own bed.

Some people consider it a great adventure to sail off (or fly off, or drive off) to realms unknown.  I don't.  It makes me anxious.

I love being home with my own bed and my own pillows, with the familiar noises and smells and things that make home, home.  I would rather drive late at night to get home to my own bed for a couple of hours than to sleep somewhere else.  I would rather drive slowly through a fierce snowstorm to get home than end up stranded in a strange place.  I'm not fanatical about it, and I wouldn't take stupid risks, but there is just always a pang when I know that "this is my last night in my own bed for a while", and always a special delight when I crawl back into my own bed.  "Not home" doesn't feel quite safe.  I feel like I don't quite belong.  There is always a pang of homesickness.

While I am away, I bring my pillow from home so that I have something familiar.  I take time to get comfortable, explore my surroundings, and test the shower.  And when I crawl into that strange bed, I close my eyes and try to picture my own room around me in the dark. But I resign myself to at least one night of lousy sleep, no matter how comfortable the bed might be.  At some point, there will be an unfamiliar sound that will wake me up with a pounding heart, or I will roll over expecting a wall to stop me, but falling into space instead.

Which makes the spiritual analogy of being a pilgrim and a wanderer on the earth a really interesting one . . .

. . . and it explains why sometimes I feel so terribly homesick, even when I am at home.

Because, as much as I hate traveling, I am on a journey.  And as much as I like being home, I am not home.

I try so hard to make this world feel like home.  I try to surround myself with familiar and comfortable things and people.  I do my best to imagine myself at home in it by telling myself how good things are, and how blessed I am.  And things can be good, and I am indeed blessed, but the truth is that those good things don't mean that I am home, but only point me to my true home.  Invariably, as soon as I begin to feel settled here, I will hear something that will wake me up with a pounding heart:

"We can't afford to pay you anymore.  We need to let you go."

"The cancer's back.  It's not looking good."

"We hired someone else."

"It's an 'unhappy triad' and is going to require surgery if you want a stable knee."

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing else we can do."

"I hate you.  I'm leaving."

I roll over and expect a wall to catch me but instead, I end up falling into space.

The job I thought would lead to security suddenly disappears.

The friend or loved one I depended on for support suddenly can't be there.
Or even worse, chooses not to be.

The paycheque never seems to be quite enough to cover my costs.

My loved ones suffer.

My loved ones die.

And my heart breaks.

But the wonderful news is that I am not home!  I am only travelling.  Someday, Jesus will return.  Someday, there will be a new heavens and a new earth.  Someday, I will be home.  I will step onto that new earth, and the atmosphere of it will settle on me like a warm blanket, like sunshine on my shoulders.  I will draw in a deep breath and know that in this place, I belong, completely and fully belong. I will be surrounded by all that is good, and safe, and familiar, and loving.  I will crawl into bed, and sigh, and succumb fully to a sleep that will be deeper and more restful than any I have known on my travels.  And in the morning, my eyes will open to all that is joyous and familiar, and I will know that I am home.

I don't like travelling.  Sometimes I must.  But I don't unpack my suitcase.

Because I'm not yet home.