Home bittersweet home
It's all imperfect foretastes this side of heaven
I’d been wanting to start a Substack for years. In fact, I did start one years ago, but it remained dormant from the beginning. I still have the finished draft I first wrote that I’m too afraid to post. (We’ll see—maybe one day.)
But the years went by, and I rode the waves of change and grief and moves, fell in love, got married, had a baby, and here we are. Better late than never. The reason I finally got around to writing (to share) is simple. Silly, really.
I went on a work trip with my husband.
That is, he had a conference in Philly and the baby and I tagged along. It meant a few big firsts for us—the first time we’d been away overnight since the baby was born, the first drive over an hour, the first real test of whether we could manage this new parenting role away from home for an extended period. I’m happy to say we all survived, and had a really good time at that. And even though I spent most of the time with the baby at the hotel or in the car ferrying my husband to and from the conference center, the fact that I was in Philly gave me a jolt of energy, inspiration, and drive.
You see, I lived in Philadelphia for years, first in my mid-twenties before I entered the convent, and again after I left. I really made it my home, and it will always have a hold on my heart. I was reflecting recently about the golden era of that first stint—I was living with dear friends in a charming apartment, hosting Bible studies and dinner parties, going on weekly five milers with my running club, and befriending new people at every chance I got. It was a dream of a time.
It’s a great joy for me to return to that place where I built such a happy life for myself, though it’s not necessarily always that “golden era” I think of when I return. There were hard times, too, of course. And while I may be hit with a slight pang of nostalgia when I visit, I don’t ever wish I could go back in time and relive those days. It was merely a stop along the way, an arrow toward my lifelong vocation as a wife and mother in which I’m so happily and gratefully settled. But still I have such a deep sense of appreciation and fondness for that city where I once lived, for the blocks and friends and seasons there that shaped me.
I feel that pang of nostalgia for all my old homes, to a degree. From the shoebox of a house where I grew up to my minuscule freshman dorm to my embarrassment of riches in Manhattan, the homes I’ve lived in all hold a special place in my heart. And it’s interesting to reflect on those homes as I turn toward the future with my husband, as we think and plan and discern the next steps for our little but growing family. There’s so much about our current home I’m grateful for, the lovely brick rancher nestled in a Pennsylvania borough dotted with farms and factories. I love that we can leave the house without locking the door. I love that I can walk to the library, grocery store, pharmacy, and gym. I love that we can drive just a few minutes and be in wide open spaces that brilliantly showcase God’s creation.
And yet.
If you asked me what else I’d like in a place to live, I could easily rattle off a list of five not insignificant items. It’s things like schools and community and culture that fill my daydreams about the place we’ll call home next. And dreaming and planning for not just myself, or myself and my husband, but now for us and our little son holds a new weight I’m still not accustomed to.
In a way, I’d like to custom build my own town or suburb or little city. I’d like to fill it with all the best features of my old homes and none of the bad. It would be walkable and lively, but quiet and safe. It would be teeming with young Catholic families and moms to befriend. It would be close to our families and the beach. It would include cute little coffee shops and an amazing library and beautiful parks filled with kids every day. It would be just perfect.
But that’s not how life works, is it? It’s not reality. Try as I might, I can’t possibly design a place to live, and every home I have will always be riddled with imperfections. Wherever I live, I will always be able to make a list of things I wish I had, things I’d change, things I miss about my last home. Nowhere I live will ever be enough.
In fact, I think that’s the point. My penchant for daydreaming about the perfect home actually points to my soul-deep longing for the perfect home, the one I’m destined to inhabit for eternity. Even if I could make an amalgamation of all the very best features of past homes, the novelty would wear off and I would soon be craving something new and different. I like to think that that mix of nostalgia for the past and gratitude for the present and dreaming for the future is really just a shadowy reminder of the truth that I’m made to live forever, and not in a place I’d want to change in the slightest.
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places,” Jesus tells His apostles at the Last Supper. “If it were not so,” He continues, “would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” (John 14:2-3) That is the home I truly long for. I long to dwell in my Father’s house, and it’s not a home I have to make for myself but a place that Jesus Himself is preparing for me. It’s not even one I need to find on my own, but rather one that Jesus will bring me to. It’s free of the imperfections of this fallen world, existing in an unearthly place free of nostalgia and even dreaming. It’s the home that calls me higher in my worldly search for the unrealizable perfect home on earth.
Now that’s the home where I want to live.
How about you? What do you love about where you live or wish for in a different home? How do you fix your eyes on heaven while still living in the present here below? I’m still working on it…