I did the math and realized that we have moved six times in the last ten years. Not including the move we're about to make.
There was a point to it all, of course. We spent some time with my mom before she left (although the original plan there was just a short layover on our way to Buenos Aires.) We paid off debt by renovating and selling. Our nomadic existence hasn't been without purpose or plan.
But all the same, for the last ten years - and really, for longer than that - nothing has felt permanent. Everywhere we've lived has been a hold-over on our way elsewhere, every home has had it's own purpose and lesson, fitting the season we were in.
As we've been preparing this house, more than almost any other place we've lived, as I would finish a long day of painting or scrubbing, I would long to be there. I would imagine it vividly in my head, coffees on the front porch, light in the big windows; Fall bonfires and Christmas trees. I'm less and less eager to go back to the old house as we get closer to the new one. (And that's nothing compared to my heart for our promised land, with the goats and the bees and the wild fruit trees. But with this, I was close enough to taste it. It could be real enough to imagine not in theory, but in vivid, wall color detail.)
The other day it occurred to me that maybe this is similar to how I should consider this life and my eventual home in heaven. That I am a little bit displaced here - all for a good reason, each season with a lesson to teach - but that really, I'm preparing to go to a better place, one that I should long for with at least as much hope and enthusiasm as I long for.
The girls and I are thinking of digging in to this book as a study. Someone gave this to me right after mom died. I tried to start it and really enjoyed what I read, but it just wasn't the right time.
I'm looking forward to it now, though. Building a better picture of that home worth longing for.