This World Is Not My Home

2008-05-25_3535 (640x427)Labor Day is better known as that holiday when everyone takes out the camper for one final trip before summer ends. Me? I spent my holiday deep cleaning my new—old—camper. I doubt whether a dust rag or wash bucket has ever darkened its door.

A couple days ago, I was re-hanging the curtains I’d laundered. Stripped of all sun blocks and parked in tree-less 90-degree weather, my camper was baking like an oven. Now that was something new—to be sitting in a comfy chair, simply hanging a curtain, and breaking a sweat. Normally I have to be hiking or biking with Molly to clean out my pores like that.

I was dead uncomfortable. And I must have been in a low altogether, because I started asking myself what on God’s good earth I was doing, leaving my hometown and everything and everyone I knew to live in a 23-foot flying sardine can.

Out of nowhere, a sentence came to me. “This world is not my home.”

Random thoughts are always rolling through my head. Maybe my brain is just Google-searching the millions of pages of content in my little gray cells. Or maybe God knows what I need when I need it.

How I had that phrase in my mental database in the first place is beyond me. My first guess was that it was a hymn—one of the classics, which is all I know. But Google (the real Google) tells me it’s by somebody named Jim Reeves, and you can hear him sing it on YouTube, so we’re not talking Charles Wesley or Martin Luther or anything.

Wherever that sentence came from, it really was what I needed. Okay, so “home” is wherever I park my camper, and “home” one month may not be “home” the month afterwards. In one regard, this whole world (or the North American continent) is going to be “home.” But in another regard, no place on earth is my home.

My home is elsewhere, just like the song says.

This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through

My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.

The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door

And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.

So really—why should I be worried about the trip ahead? I’m already just a traveler on the earth. Come what may, good or bad, at home or abroad, it will all pass away and be forgotten. My real home is with God. Forever.

The thought was driven home a couple nights ago when a hail storm took out one of the skylights on the camper. As my elders always told me, “Ya can’t take it with ya.” Point taken, Lord.

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