“Farmer Fred” and his wife, the “Viking Princess” are Facebook friends of mine. Those folks who my aunt used to call my “pretend friends”, but undoubtedly the kind of people I like to fill my life with. While we’ve never met in person, Farmer Fred regales me with stories of living the farm life in Michigan. He tells me stories of his military career and how his princess still takes his breath away. He shares pictures of his draft horses and farm equipment, old logging operations and hand crafted stacks of hay that hearken back to a bygone era. He gives me helpful advice on do-it-yourself stuff around the farm and offers words of encouragement. Farmer Fred and the VP are good people and someday we’ll sit together over a meal and discuss farming and literature and the human condition. But for now, our “therapy” is achieved over a virtual cup of coffee and a few snippets of life in the nether regions of this country.
Yesterday, we discussed “home”. Being a military man shaped Farmer Fred’s world view and his concept of home. But his bottom line is, home is where the VP is. I totally get that. Home was wherever Mr. Virgo was. We moved to two different places before we came back to our little house in the mountains where he lived out his days, yet home had nothing to do with our address. Home was his heart. Home was my name feeling safe in his mouth. Home was his blue eyes and welcoming arms. Home was lying by his side in the wee small hours, listening to his breathing. Then…I became homeless.
Death is a heartless thief who steals home away and places it just out of our grasp. Pictures and memories are all we have to remind us of what home truly was. We remember what home felt like. And every breath makes us yearn to go home again. I was lost, floating on the vast ocean of grief in a rudderless skiff…the storm threatening to capsize me at any moment. In my pain, I had forgotten something very important. My home…my real home…does not lie in the heart of another. It does not exist in a box of wood and stone. It isn’t held in the hands of a man. My home is in Heaven. I’m just here on temporary assignment…a sort of “working vacation” where I’ve come to learn to love, among other important lessons. But basically, to learn to love unconditionally. When my assignment here is complete, however long that is, I’ll go back home. Until then, I have different addresses and different lessons to learn while I live there.
That doesn’t mean we can’t find a sense of home in the hearts of those who love us. When we love enough to feel safe in the embrace of who we love…that is a beautiful thing. That FEELS like home. For a long time after losing Mr. Virgo, I refused to believe I would ever feel that again. But time eases wounds and quells fear. I know if God wants me to have the sense of home a great love can give, I’ll stumble upon it. It will walk right through the door and into my life like a gift dropped by sweet angels of mercy. In the meantime, I rest in the arms of my Father’s embrace and I’m as close to home as I can get…for now. ❤️
“You know the way to the place where I am going.”
John 14:4 NIV