This past Thanksgiving, I had the pleasure of going back to my childhood home in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My parent’s home is a cozy log cabin tucked away on 40 acres of mature, picturesque hardwood and evergreens. I was born and raised on this property, the only home that I ever knew prior to marriage. The 50-year-old log cabin sits in the middle of this property, and no matter which direction you turn, it only takes a few steps to be deep in untouched wilderness.
This particular Thanksgiving was different than any other I have experienced – My Dad, a Vietnam Vet, has Parkinson’s and is no longer able to live on his own on his property, and my Mom died in June after battling an aggressive cancer. The prior Thanksgiving was like any other – Mom and Dad both at home doing what they’ve done for my whole life: Mom rushing to bring together all the trappings of a Thanksgiving dinner together, and Dad hunting – stacking up whitetail deer on the buck pole. Evenings filled with cards, Hearts being the family favorite, and Dad telling old classic hunting stories.
This year neither of my parents were there. We arrived to a silent, empty home, but filling it with my children and nieces and nephews, it wasn’t quiet for long. On Wednesday afternoon my kids and their cousins, all lovers of music, began playing music and singing in the living room. I was there in the room, nestled in a cozy leather chair with my sick one-year old son sleeping on my chest. A beautiful opportunity to slow down and take in the moment, savoring the sounds these young men and women were creating right there. And then they began playing one of my all-time favorites. A John Denver classic: Country roads, take me home – to the place where I belong. As I was looking around the room in that log cabin, it all hit with such force: This home, the only one I’ve ever known, no longer felt like the place I belong. It felt empty and foreign. It was reminiscent of being with the body of a loved one after they have died. The life that was once so real and tangible, now so really and tangibly gone.
Pope Benedict once remarked that our childhood home can be a memory which leads us to long for heaven, our true home. Everything in this life is passing. The warmth of home even. Home is essential, and a source of great joy and comfort, providing a vision of heaven along with a hope for it. But home here is ultimately passing. This is terrible and wonderful all at once, pointing to our eternal home. My home life was warm. Not perfect, but warm. There is something far greater and perfect ahead.
Lord, please let my home be that place of warmth where my children have the freedom to be children growing in love and understanding, and that it creates in their hearts a hope and desire for that perfect, eternal home.