This morning’s social media tour is bringing up loads of pictures from the summer Homecoming celebration in the little community where I was born and raised. We had 28 people in our graduating class, and most of us had been together for twelve years or longer. I married a boy from our rival school and moved away the week of graduation. I always tell people we were in the Viet Nam generation, and we grabbed onto life before it could march away in a green uniform and never come home again.
Today, I wondered how it would feel to still live there. To watch our grandchildren compete in the fishing derby or walk across the stage in the queen contest. To visit with our lifelong neighbors as we watched the parade.
I know the nostalgia is especially strong this year. My handsome husband and I have lived in many homes since our first honeymoon cottage forty-eight summers ago. This spring, we sold the last home months before the new one will be ready. So, we are in transition. Living in a guest bedroom, staying in hotels, hopping around from place to place during the in-between time.
It is an unsettling lifestyle for people who thrive on routine.
And so, I got a little homesick this morning. Then I remembered the verse I had written in permanent marker on the two-by-fours that will eventually become the base of our new kitchen island.
“Oh, God, through all the generations You have been our home.”
The words were written by Moses, the man of God, who lived in a tent in the wilderness for forty years. He pulled up stakes and moved every time the spirit of the Lord called him to go. Surely, I can be content in my air-conditioned guest room with thick carpet and an adjoining bathroom with running water!
As long as God walks with us, we are always Home.
Besides, that guy from the rival school? He’s still my home, too. What a great life.