In the house in which I grew–up and out and on and into–me.
Laying down to rest after an early plane flight, the smell of the pillowcase finds me. I whiff years of love. I feel the air here, as if it were the same air I breathed the first eighteen years of my life.
The house feels smaller each time I come back, and the memories more and more cramped in the back of my mind, taken over by smiles and giggles from curly-headed children and the kisses from he who shares my life.
Staring at the ceiling in my old room, time rewinds. Blue residue from sticky tack that used to hold notecards above my bunk bed hails my high school years, and that one word in small black letters, snuck between the bumps of the popcorn finish of the ceiling: PRAY.
I’m struck by the distance. Not only that I scribbled that word half my life ago, but that I’m farther away now in my spirit. Farther away in passion. That youthful wildness of heart that believed my life would be … well, not how it is now. I’m farther away now. Discouraged.
But strangely, I’m closer. In this weakness and weariness, I’m closer to grace. Closer to Strength.
Need pushes one to Revelation. And that Living Revealed Word brings one truly home.
In the sanctuary of His presence, breathing the whispered air of grace. Where the house of His Spirit seems bigger each moment I stop for respite. Where a vision of streets of gold, a Lamb on a throne, and a flowing, endless river keep my earthly steps steady.
Even the silence of my childhood home has a fullness that can’t quite be explained because home is like that–rooted in eternity, a reflection of a place so rich and sweet that to glimpse it only in part, now, in the flesh, is almost too much. But the glorious expectation of drinking in the sight fully, someday, keeps one pushing onward, reaching.