“Turn up the lights,
I don’t want to go home in the dark”
– the last words of O. Henry
Today on my way home from work, I passed a dozen houses. It’s one of the joys of a small town, this walk home. I like a place where people honk only to say, “Hi.”
Some of the houses I pass are dilapidated, others groomed to perfection. The millionaire’s place on the corner is framed in brick; its expansive yard causes heads to turn. But today I didn’t notice. Today when I took a left through a field of dandelions and saw the cappuccino-coloured cottage nestled near the railway tracks, my pace quickened. Today I realized for the very first time that I pick up speed the closer I get to home.
I suppose I’ve always wanted a place of my own.
A backyard pool. An underground gym. Maybe a tennis court or two.
But I settled for four bedrooms. Three children. Two pets. And one wife.
Three years from now we’ll have three teenagers. We’ll add another room. We’ll need more prayer. Last week we celebrated 18 months here. It finally feels like home, said Ramona.
It’s the memories, I think: Saturday night pizza. Mid-winter barbecues. Kids lunging at us early Christmas morning. Midnight conversations. Barefoot walks. Arguments, too. Stephen’s guppies, Rachael’s dolls, Jeffrey’s laugh.
Ah, how I love this place we call home.
But I’ve noticed something else lately. A month ago a toilet seal gave way. Guess who fixed it? Spring showed up a leaky basement. It’s on my list. So is a dripping tap, a frayed carpet, a pantry door that’s been a real pain.
What we construct eventually corrodes. Sidewalks crack. Cars rust. Houses decay.
We’re constantly rebuilding. Renovating. Restoring the stuff of earth. Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I love rooms dancing with memories. Halls loud with laughter. Even sticky fingerprints on windows. But leaky toilets and wet basements remind me that nothing lasts forever.
Nothing here.
That this house is a poor substitute for Home. Tonight the television shows visions of a far-off war. Of a high school massacre closer to home. A judge calls child porn acceptable — wouldn’t want to trample anyone’s freedom of choice. The weather report looks daunting. Cold tonight. Colder tomorrow. To add insult, my Blue Jays lost a nail-biter. It’s harder and harder to call this place home.
Home sounds more like a place where kids run free. Where God makes everything new. Where wheelchairs and tears and glasses and heart medicine aren’t even a memory.
Home sounds like a place where joy and laughter are permanent. Where God’s people touch nail scars, bow in awe, and celebrate that empty tomb.
My son says I’m aging fast. Picking up speed the closer I get to Home. Tonight, for the very first time, I don’t mind at all. Tonight, I’m reminded that we were made for more than this.
Such hope gives me purpose here. To live each day like it’s a bonus. To take God’s hand and walk bravely into tomorrow. Passing grace along.
At times I wish I had answers for the pain and the suffering. But for now it’s enough to know that one day soon —
I will be Home. For good. That one day soon my questions will be straightened — into exclamation points. That those arms that spread wide on a Roman cross will open once again. “Welcome,” he will say, “I think you’re gonna like the place I’ve prepared. I’ve been working on it for about 5,000 years. Welcome Home.”
