Homesick

Seeing our old house was at the top of my to-do list on our visit to our former home town, the place where we had raised our family.  Countless times during lonely hours of sentimental reminiscing my thoughts were filled with memories of those days. How would I react if I got to walk through those dear, familiar rooms again?  I got teary just thinking about it.

I had been unable to contact the present owners with the possibility that we might drop by while we were in town for the wedding of our grandson.  After repeated attempts to reach them, my husband and I decided we would just drive by the place.  But he was pulling in the driveway!  He boldly got out, walked to the door and rang the bell.  This felt so intrusive!

In a moment Howard beckoned me to join him after chatting with the friendly man who answered the door.  I walked upon the porch, noticing they had painted the floor the same shade of gray porch paint we had used several times over our 20-year residence there. We were warmly welcomed and invited in.  My eyes hungrily took in the space.  The golden heart-of-pine floors that I had loved so much glowed beneath my feet as I stepped in.

I was taken aback at the beauty! Tasteful furnishings were placed in comfortable arrangements around "our" living room that opened onto a deck.  The one we had built so many years ago had been replaced  sometime back. The view that met my eyes was amazing!

This was a magazine-worthy, cozy garden enclosed in rustic board fences and filled with thoughtful touches in every surprising nook.  An antique, porcelain sink stood in a far corner looking perfectly at home.  Opulent rows of lavishly drooping tomato plants had delivered over 600  ripe, luscious ruby-red gems to the home gardener, who had a pot of them on the stove sending their aromatic, steamy fragrance throughout the house.

There was even an outdoor working kitchen, complete with an evenly-laid wood floor and an adjoining bricked space. Gourmet chef cooking tools hung from a shelf lined with old soda bottles and bric-a-brac. Back inside, we were invited to peek in any and all rooms, company ready, as if they were expecting us!

Across a breezeway, which had always been my decorating nemesis, I noticed slight indentations on the facing of the door to the "man cave."  Though the door frame had been repainted, I knew the marks were from our then-teenage son who in a fit of energy? aggravation? whatever, had carved into it a list of chores he had done: 1. Swept breezeway. 2. Mowed grass.  3. Fed dog.  4.  Blew off driveway.  All followed by date of completion!

The rest of the house was filled with organized collections, book-filled shelves, and comfy furniture. There was even an antique juke-box filled with 45-vinyl discs!  The majestic, antique range we remembered presided over a second kitchen. More patios and gardens were glimpsed through the windows.

The house was everything I had ever wanted it to be, and more.  It reminded me of something I heard in a teaching by Beth Moore. She said that when the saints return with Jesus at the second coming, we will be everything we were meant to be.  No personality flaws, no age-lined faces, no broken-down bodies--just happy and complete.

The comparison somehow seems appropriate, for this house was born in a church, you might say.  It was built from cypress beams and lumber from the predecessor of the church next door to it.  And many of God's people were born-again in church. Hebrews 12:23 calls us "the church of the firstborn, which are written in heaven, ...the spirits of just men made perfect."   The house was not my home anymore, but I have a perfect home, my real home waiting in heaven!