Though many details have yet to be worked out, a move is imminent for us. So we have decided to start the packing process, filling a box here or there each day. We hope this will reduce the mad rush right before a moving date when piles of belongings get frantically and unsystematically stuffed into cardboard cubes for transport.
This weekend, when Jessie and Drake were out, I decided to start boxing up some items in our kitchen, the room that feels most daunting to me in the packing process. As I carefully began wrapping my grandmother’s fine china in tissue, I was suddenly hit with a torrent of memories from the last time we moved, when our journey of settling into this home had begun.
I remembered all the anticipation in my heart for our life to come; it felt as though the world was before us as we moved into this home – Jud was 17 months old and his personality was flourishing, our family was expanding with a precious little baby growing inside me, we were moving into a great new home, Drake was pleased with his job, we had a beautiful park in our front yard and we were going to be living just a couple miles from the beach. Though there was exhaustion over the move, it was coupled with great hope for all that was to come.
But I also was vividly recalling the prayers that had been on my heart five years ago when I had been unpacking my grandma’s china. I was specifically nervous about our stairs. We live in a tri-level home (four levels if you include our garage), so there are stairs everywhere and the handrails had been removed by our landlord. Judson was young — a steady walker, but not a pro-climber — and I was concerned about his safety. I kept having pictures in my mind of Jud tumbling down the hardwood stairs and getting seriously injured.
So I prayed through my fears as I unpacked, “Oh dear God, please protect my Juddy. Please keep him safe in this home and free from injury!” Over and over I spoke this request to God and expressed all the concerns racing through my head. I had no idea that the stairs would be the least of his challenges.
As these memories were flooding my mind, I collapsed on our kitchen floor in a heap. My boy is dead. I begged God to protect my little man and now he is dead. I am leaving this home without him and much of the life that was before me now feels like it is behind me. My sorrow was slashed open with the packing of my first box.
But as I was bawling prostrate on the floor, another thought began to echo in my mind. Judson is home. This was not his home. Judson is home.
It hit me! This place is not my home either, nor is the place into which we will move. I have many more boxes to pack, and they will likely tear deeply at my wounds, but I am dreaming of the home being kept in heaven for me (1 Peter 1)…that is my real home!
Juddy is home and I look forward to the day when I am home too.
What keeps you from being too tied to your earthly home?