I'm homesick. And sad. I've been feeling vaguely unhappy as of late, and the feeling has slowly defined itself over the last couple of days, coalescing into clarity when I told my sister on the phone, "It feels like my house, but not my home." You see, I've packed all my belongings, unpacked most of them, changed my address, hung a few pictures on the walls, and scrubbed the showers, but my soul hasn't settled here yet. The part of me that likes to feel cozy, that likes to belong, is still floating around in limbo, looking for a place to perch.
We moved a month ago, and already we've lived some good life here. We've played with our kids, cut down some trees, entertained family and friends, hosted our small group from church. All the things that we did in our old home, plus some new things, we are doing here. But it just doesn't feel right yet. Maybe it's the lingering smell of......whatever that unpleasantness is. My cabinets smell funny, and Arm & Hammer can only do so much. There's a seemingly endless list of pesky little honey-do jobs that need to be done. There are three old toilets sitting in the garage, waiting to be hauled off (thankfully, they are no longer the three toilets sitting in my bathrooms. Husband for the win!). I've unpacked things and can't remember where I put them. I can't figure out where to hang my pictures (brilliant sister who helped with the living room collage, please come back!!).
Complain, complain, complain.
The way I feel right now reminds me of a story I read of a group of people who experienced incredible injustice and cruelty at the hand of a tyrannical megalomaniac.They had done nothing wrong to deserve this treatment, and they had no one and no where to turn for help. But someone knew of their plight, and because of an old promise made almost half a millennium before, they decided to save them. The process of their salvation was painful for everyone involved. It was also unspeakably terrifying, awesome, and powerful. Supernatural events brought the tyrant to his knees and the poor, oppressed people were allowed to leave their house of bondage to wander into the wilderness of freedom.
You've surely guessed by now that I'm talking about the children of Israel, God's chosen people that He freed from slavery in Egypt in order to take them to the Promised Land. Literally, a land He promised to them through their ancestors. You're also probably wondering what their story has to do with mine.
First let me say that my story is small, and insignificant, and puny when compared with the story of the Exodus. I've known this story for as long as I can remember but thanks to fantastic study material written by Jen Wilkin and the teaching of three godly, capable women, this story has gripped me and affected me in ways that it never has before. Those children of Israel have marched right out of my Bible and brought their weary, sandy selves into my living room. Those Egyptians have been hounding me, breathing threats of revenge and death down my neck, while the waves curled away from my toes. That Passover lamb has looked into my eyes the second before it's throat was cut, and I watched the life drain out of it. This isn't a small story. It's HUGE, in every possible way. My story isn't huge, but it's the one I live every day.
Even though the difference in magnitude between my story and the story of Israel's exodus from Egypt is so vast, I still find myself in that story every time I sit down to do my lesson for the week. I see my need to trust. Daily. No matter what. I see my need to obey. Daily. No matter what. I see my great God. Kind. Majestic. Powerful. Terrifying. Just. And this week, this day, I saw how I, just like Israel, was complaining instead of thanking, was nursing my discontent instead of counting my blessings.
You see, about a month after Israel left Egypt through the miraculous wonders that God wrought, they started complaining. "We're hungry. We're thirsty. We wish we had died in Egypt where they had meat pots and bread." I'm not so sure about the meat pots, but I totally identify with the bread. Even more than that I identify with the underlying emotion, and ultimately the underlying sin. By complaining about my circumstances I'm telling God that He isn't doing it right, that I don't like His plan for me and I want things done differently, preferably right away. I liked my old house that smelled nice and where I could find everything. Maybe I should just go back there and leave this smelly, disorganized soulless shell of an abode. But not really. Israel wanted a smooth transition from Egypt to Canaan. I want to instantly feel at home in this new-to-me house. We both want the same things. We want security, and we want it on our terms.
Thank God He doesn't operate that way. I'm His child, so I can always, without a doubt, know that He is working in my life in ways that will manifest and magnify His glory and will draw me into deeper relationship with Him by making me more like His most precious, perfect Son. He did the same with Israel, His chosen people. He took them through 40 years of uncomfortable and formative desert dwelling before they every set foot on promised ground. Who knows how long it's going to be, and all the things that God will do with me and for me before I feel at home in this house. Maybe I never will. Maybe this longing for earthly comfort isn't such a good thing. I can feather my nest here, but how long will that last? 20 years in this house? Another 50 or 60 years in this body? Nothing here is permanent. And so what I really truly want, and what I prayed for tonight, was that this longing I have for home will be transformed into a longing for heaven, my real home, my Promised Land.
In the end, it's all I really want.
-Ashley
