“But our citizenship is in heaven …” -Philippians 3:20a
For more than thirty years, Port Huron, Michigan, was our home. Our three children all grew up there. We could see Canada across Lake Huron from our living room window, where we’d watch the sunrise reflected off the water, and sometimes a freighter passing by in the misty morning. I would tell the children the sunrise was God’s saying, Good morning. I love you. Have a wonderful day. Some mornings He would whisper it, other mornings He would speak it louder, or shout it, or even sing it. A few mornings the sunrise was so over-the-top spectacular that we felt He was picking us up and swinging us around.
For thirty years my husband Marty, the engineer, always had some kind of project. One year it was the woodwork in the family room – the fireplace, mantle, and two walls of bookshelves, with wainscoting all around as the finishing touch. We spent many happy hours in that room, playing games, reading books, or having a movie night with popcorn and pillows.
Marty designed my dream floor in the foyer, using the black marble I loved, with dark polished wood framing each square. It was unique and (to me) exquisite. It was the first thing people noticed and admired when I opened the front door, and I admit I was proud of my husband for creating something so elegant.
Over the years, the 70’s kitchen was refloored, repainted, and updated. Marty built new cabinets, installed new counters, and together we tiled the splashboard – after he taught me how.
The day before we got hardwood floors for the living room and dining room, the kids played with Playdough to their hearts’ content. (Since the carpet would be ripped out the next day, the mess didn’t matter!) When the last of the furniture had been removed from the area, we played “Jingle Bells” full blast and joined the kids running, tumbling, and dancing on the worn-out plush carpet until we all lay in a giggling heap on the floor.
One by one the rooms in that house became “ours,” from Joanna’s Jungle Green room with colorful tropical flower and parrot beach towels adorning the walls; to our seaside master bedroom with the theme of lighthouses, ships, and seagulls; to my red, black, and white music room, decorated with roses, piano keys, and sheet music – until it became Baby Kelly’s nursery with pandas, penguins, and101 Dalmatians.
The yard held memories of birthday parties and games with the neighborhood kids, including “Buddy Baseball” with our little schnauzer Buddy playing catcher, first base, and outfielder, racing to capture the ball and chasing Kelly around the bases, while Mama, the pitcher, cheered for both of them. The memories of the flower beds and my beloved roses were mixed; they were a lot of work! But the peonies in full bloom in the spring were well deserving of the name Kelly gave them when she was little – “cotton candy dandelions.” I have fond memories of lying with Kelly in the hammock, finding shapes in the clouds and singing songs together on the swings.
Over time, memories began to include multiple graduation parties and a rehearsal dinner in the same yard. Before we knew it, Joanna and I were sitting in the living room, looking out at the lake, while my first grandchild slept in her arms.
Moving from Port Huron seemed surreal. Marty and I were both retired, and all the kids had moved south and had no intention of moving back north any time soon, so it was time. We chose Louisville, Kentucky, because of the three, Joanna nagged the best. She had two little girls by then and was expecting her third, and every time we visited and I said how nice it was to see them all, Joanna never missed an opportunity to say, “Well, you know, Mom, if you lived here, you’d be seeing us all the time.” It worked, and we’ve been here for the past ten years. One of those “little girls” is now driving, and the other will be, too, within a few months.
When we had been gone about a year, we returned to visit the area. While there, we decided to walk the familiar beach, for old times’ sake. As we approached our old house, we saw someone in the yard, and he gave us a friendly wave.
“Do you live here?” Marty asked. The man said he did. Marty explained that we were the old owners, and they had talked on the phone. The man asked if we’d like to see what they were doing with the house, and I waited for Marty to answer, not knowing if he’d want to. Marty said, “Sure.”
As we walked through, we realized this house was no longer ours.
The den, with its fireplace, bookshelves, and wainscoting had been made into a mud room. The black marble floor in the foyer was gone. No trace remained of Joanna’s tropical bird room or our seaside master bedroom. Walking through, I realized that thirty years of work on Marty’s part had been pretty much erased in less than a year’s time. I felt sad for him.
If he was sad, he didn’t show it. “It’s their house now,” he said, as we walked back to the car.
I thought of the profound message contained in that short sentence.
We got back to Louisville just in time for Sunday evening church. The first song overwhelmed me with its eternal (divine) perspective that had been driven home that day. – Never mind the fact that the melody (“Auld Lang Syne”) is enough to bring tears to my eyes, anyway.
Should nothing of our efforts stand
No legacy survive,
Unless the Lord does raise the house,
In vain its builders strive.
To you who boast tomorrow’s gain,
Tell me what is your life?
A mist that vanishes at dawn.
All glory be to Christ!*
Prayer: Lord, You know we get attached to things of this world and sometimes forget that it’s all going to burn up someday. But this is not our real home – our forever home. Thank You for Your promise of a place You have gone to prepare for us. What a glorious homecoming that will be! Until then, keep us anchored in Your Truth and seeing everything with divine perspective, in Jesus’ name. Amen.
*Sovereign Grace Music 2016
Seeking Divine Perspective 