I’ve lived in three houses in my life. From birth to late age five we lived on “H” street in town. Then we moved to the farm out on Highway 58. Finally, at age 26 I bought and moved into my small house back in town on 17th street. With the exception of a couple of years in college before I became a commuter my entire life has been lived with those locations as home base.
It’s an interesting question, what makes a house a home? I have thought of each place as home for differing reasons. When I reflect on them they are all still home in a way. I’m not sure home is so much about a location as much as where I allow my heart to settle and the people with which I share the place.
In 2008 I was invited to take part in a conference in South Africa. There were some moments leading up to the trip that still leave me shaking my head. I spent a month misreading my itinerary and missed my original flight. When I got home after realizing I had the wrong departure date I discovered my house had been robbed. The next morning on my way to catch my new flight we stopped by the bank for me to grab some money and I left my debit card in the ATM and didn’t realize it until I was sitting at Dulles airport in Washington DC waiting for my connecting flight directly to Johannesburg. It was an exciting way to start a journey. I did eventually make it to the conference with no more major issues. South Africa is a beautiful country, unbelievable scenery, warm welcoming people, and cool wildlife. A favorite afternoon activity was to go walk the trails around the campground where we were staying. We were walking along a trail and one of my friends asked, “Isn’t it hard to believe that we are on the opposite side of the world? I still can’t get over it.” I said, “You know, I hadn’t even thought about it. It kind of feels a bit like home to me.” I grew up in Southern Indiana. The Hoosier State and South Africa are nothing a like. “I just kind of feel like this is where I am supposed to be right now.”
A soon as I made that statement I stopped in the middle of the trail, “Do you think maybe it’s because of how we believe that we can feel so at home so far from home?”
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” If I am made for another world then anywhere I set foot in this one can become my dwelling because I know it is only a temporary place. My truest home is in the midst of God. Where I find myself now is a gift that I get to enjoy. That means whether in one of three houses, in South Africa, on a mountain, or resting on a beach I can feel at rest because it’s all a weak reflection of the place my spirit longs for and for which it was made.
In 2012 I lost a job that I loved. At that point I had spent a third of my life working for the same organization and I believed I would spend my entire life there. After the end came I was broken and that led to me being broke. I substitute taught and donated plasma and scrapped around doing what I could to literally keep the lights on. Keeping the lights on also meant that I wasn’t making mortgage payments. I limped along for several months and had lots of phone calls with the bank that held the note at the time. Each time I missed a payment my personal embarrassment grew. I was trying to launch a not-for-profit ministry at the time and for the first six months we were definitely not-for-profit. We had been meeting with students for a few months but there wasn’t money to make payroll. Between visiting a school and preparing to meet with 50 students that night I stopped by my house on 17th street to pick up a few things. There were some papers folded and taped to the front door. I pulled them off and opened them up… I held the foreclosure notice. I was going to lose my house. I didn’t have time to think about it at that moment. There was ministry that had to be done. I pulled myself together I stood in front of a bunch of teenagers that night and told them that God loved them and he saw them where they were and they mattered to Him. In the back of my mind I knew there was a legal document sitting in my car that said in essence, “come up with a bunch of money or get out.”
I walked through the side door of my little house, and sat down in my chair and starred at a painting I have hanging above the mantel. In the silence I realized how numb I was. I didn’t know what to feel so I didn’t feel anything. I looked at the image and said, “God I don’t want to lose my home. I don’t want to lose this place.” I probably repeated it a few times then I was still. In the silence a statement crossed my mind, “Nick, this is a house not your home. I will take care of you.” I had no real reason to believe those words, other than they came from the center of all I believed and still believe. Two days later I walked into a board meeting and told my board of directors my situation and I told them about the conversation I had had sitting in my chair. I told them I was at peace, I didn’t want to lose my house but I was okay no matter what would come. A few days later all the payroll issues were resolved and a couple of significant donations came in, and I was given several months back pay. When the dust settled I had enough money in hand to catch-up the mortgage and pay the legal fees to stop the foreclosure and I still live in my little dumpy house.
What makes a “house” a ”home”? I don’t really know, but I believe it has more to do with the people that live there than it does with a material dwelling. Home is the memories. Home is the people you share it with. Home can be anywhere you set your feet, because this is just a house. My heart still longs for something it can’t experience this side of Resurrection.