When we went away a couple of weeks ago, we didn’t take much with us, really. Two suitcases of clothes, both computers, a few toys for the kids and two coolers of food. It was a drop in the bucket of our personal belongings.
One afternoon during our vacation, I had to go back to Saint Louis for some job training and while I was there I stopped by our apartment to pick up some things we realized would be nice to have once we arrived. I walked into the apartment in which I have lived for two years and anticipate living for two more, and it suddenly didn’t feel like home. All of my belongings were there, my furniture, Jonathan’s paintings, the children’s toys. The photographs were of me and the people I love. It was my books and my clutter but I didn’t want to stay. It didn’t feel comforting, or welcoming to me at all. It was my house, but it wasn’t my home.
I realized that all of those things I had left behind, while nice and good and beneficial and useful and necessary, were not any of the things that make my house a home. They are comforting and familiar, but if I had to, I could leave them all and still have a place that felt like coming home. For someone facing a giant question mark in two years, wondering where the Lord will call us, and to what position, in what capacity, I was comforted to know that everything that makes my home can fit in my van.