Written on June 14, 2013.
“Dreaming of home is nice,” one of my friends wrote today. My immediate reaction was to scoff at the notion, as an image of the house I grew up in popped into my mind, which is usually featured in my nightmares. Between the yelling matches, the doors that didn’t lock properly, the filthy dishes in the sink, the rancid refrigerator, and the regular reminder that I was “too sensitive,” the home I grew up in felt anything but safe.
But my next thought after reading my friend’s post was, Dreams of my real home would be nice.
My real home is my home with God, in heaven. That’s where my heart has longed to be ever since I came to this earth, whether I consciously recognized it or not, and I long for it more the older I get.
There’s an old, fun personality test that begins with, “You’re walking through a forest.” There are many versions of it, but in one version, you come to a wall and you’re asked to describe what’s on the other side. It’s always been a secret garden for me. That’s how I envision heaven. That’s my true home.