Not Home Yet

By Lydia Pinontoan

We walked through the door of our desert home after a 14-hour flight and a month living out of suitcases and sleeping in guest rooms. It had been a wonderful and needed time away to visit family and friends, but there’s just something about coming home. 

I looked around, thankful to be surrounded by our own belongings again – our big grey couch, our books on the shelves, our world map hanging on the wall. They’re just things, but they’re our things, and they were a welcome sight for these travel-wearied eyes. 

Our maltese-schnauzer pup was apparently elated as well, if his standing on two legs and wiggling until he fell over means anything at all. When our 8-month-old daughter saw her little buddy again, she giggled and squealed with delight. 

My husband hauled in our luggage, breathed a sigh of relief, and collapsed on the couch. 

We were all so happy to be home. 

And yet, mingled with the relief and joy was the niggling reminder that, though we had stepped inside the four walls where we feel most unreservedly ourselves, we had just left behind family and friends who love us. We had traded the lush greenery of Minnesota and Texas for the hot, arid dust of the Middle East. 

I’ve lived here for nearly three years; my husband has been here 10 years. It really is home for us. Yet as time passes, as our family grows, as we look to the future, we become more aware of the fact that it can’t be our home forever. We have set down roots, but one day they will be plucked up. 

We were home again, but we aren’t home forever. 

I wonder if you’ve ever had a feeling like this before. I bet you have. Maybe as you settled into a dorm room as another semester began. Maybe as you wrapped your arms around a boyfriend or girlfriend, temporarily reuniting during a long distance relationship. Maybe even as you finally set down roots in a community where you plan to stay for a while. 

Especially in short term comfort, and even in long term homes and relationships, we’re left with a sense of longing — a deep internal knowledge that something’s missing — that this won’t last forever. And, as hard as we try to push that feeling away, as deeply as we try to send our roots into our current community or friend group or relationship, the reality remains. 

We’re not Home yet. 

And, believe it or not, that’s really good news. Because every person is flawed. Every place is subject to decay. Every experience, in one way or another, is marred by the brokenness of this world. Nothing on this earth is strong enough to bear the weight of your soul. To find a truly-forever home here would mean forever-disappointment, forever-decay, forever-death.

That’s why God placed a warrior angel with a flaming sword in front of the Tree of Life after sin shattered our once-perfect world. (Go read Genesis 3 for more detail.) He protects us from living forever in a place that is marred by what is unholy. He keeps us from setting our roots too deeply into the soil of this broken world. He continually beckons us to the eternal – to the Home that has been prepared for us by His Son, who came to this earth and experienced its brokenness for us. 

Jesus, more than any of us, knew that He wasn’t Home yet as He sojourned the dusty streets of ancient Israel. During His three years of public ministry, He would have stayed in guest rooms or slept under the stars. He left His eternal Heavenly Home to experience a life full of all that is broken and temporary.

Yet as Jesus died on the cross and rose again, He swung the door of His eternal Home wide open for all who would come to Him in faith. Now, as we rest solely on Him — as we come to Him for salvation and security — we have a true Home even in the midst of all our temporary dwelling places. 

I look forward to the day I can settle down with my family in a community where we can stay for good. But no matter where I call “home,” whether it’s temporary or the place we hope to stay for the rest of our lives, I’m grateful for the constant reminders that I’m not Home yet. I’m thankful that God continually beckons me to fix my eyes on Christ and the hope of eternity. 

And wherever you find yourself today — whether you feel at home or painfully out of place — whether you’re in transition or have lived in the same house your whole life — I invite you to do the same. Fix your eyes on Christ and the hope of eternity. Remember that nothing on this earth is able to offer the true rest your soul longs for. Deeply enjoy and invest in the homes and relationships and communities that God has given, but when they don’t satisfy your soul (and they never will), run to the Giver. Take hope in the Home that is coming. 

One day we will finish our journey on this earth. Those in the Family of God will finally walk through those heavenly doors. We’ll be greeted by the saints who have gone before. We’ll see our Savior face to face. It’ll be sweeter than any earthly homecoming we’ve ever known.  

We’re not Home yet. But it’s coming, Friend. 

It’s coming.