I grew up in parsonages. For those not familiar with the life of an "itinerant" preacher, a parsonage is the house the parish provides for the pastor and his family. We usually left a parsonage a little better than we found it. My parents always made improvements to any parsonage in which we lived. My dad said it was being a good steward of that which had been provided for us. I never really thought much about it...you know, the fact that we never lived in "our" house.
I was fortunate as a PK, I only moved once with my parents while growing up. Okay, maybe more than that when I was a baby but only one that I remember. In light of that fact, I guess I never really grew attached to the houses in which we lived...then Dad died and everything changed.
I began to remember and reflect. I could recall the smells of the parsonage at Fincastle, where I spent my early childhood. I thought about all the things that, in my eyes, made that house so wonderful:the oil furnace, the phone that hung on the kitchen wall, the back porch enclosed to make a laundry room, the basement garage, my room, the small den where we all had our "assigned" seats... all of it! For some reason that parsonage at Fincastle felt like "home" to me after Dad went to Heaven. I'm not sure why but I know that after he left this earth I had a longing to return to that house...to walk through and remember. Sadly, the house had been long since gone. Condemned and torn down but I can look at that lot and still see that house. I still see that aluminum swing set in the back yard. I can see my Dad on the riding lawnmower or working in his garden or climbing up that big ol ham radio antenna pole (which is amazing in and of itself as Dad was extremely phobic about heights). I see it in my minds eye and I smile. I smile because the times were simple then and I didn't have a care in the world. I thought my parents would live forever. I vividly recall my dad finding me in my room sobbing. He sat down beside me and asked me why I was crying. I looked up at him through my tears and said, "I'm worried that you will die." He squeezed me close and said, "That won't happen for a long long time. Don't you worry." I remember thinking to myself the day he died, "I guess it's been a long long time." After he died, I wanted to go "home" and remember. I wanted to touch all those things again. Walk all those halls again but I couldn't..."home" was gone. It was just an empty field.
I've come to realize that "home" is not really anywhere on this earth. Sure, I enjoying living in our beautiful home where all our "stuff" is stored/used and where we sleep, eat and make memories with family and friends. The bottom line...this earth is not our home. Our home is with the Father.
It's been said "you can't go home again", well that may be so but we haven't yet been "home". While we live in houses here that we call home there is another place...a beautiful place. A place where there is no more pain and sorrow, sickness and disease, no worry or strife. A place where we will hug the necks of those who have been waiting for us to arrive. Heaven...a place called HOME.
No comments:
Post a Comment