Nomad

Home.

It’s a precious and beautiful thing. It’s a gift. It’s a word not everyone gets to experience. Many have a past, an origin, a heritage, but never a home. I think it’s one of those quintessential things we’re all looking for. The cliche that’s no less true, we’re all searching for love, purpose, and a place to call home.

Until last year I have always had a place to call my home. My sanctuary. My space. I never realized how grateful I should have been for that. It’s been a full year since I had a place that was my home. In that time I’ve had houses and apartments, I’ve had brick and mortar, but I haven’t had a home.

That is the idol I have held up and coveted these last months, clasped in my angry fist as I railed against the Lord for taking it away. The idol I mourned over when the promise of another new home fell through.

But the Lord has been so gracious and patient with this petulant child. He has shown me that home was never really about a physical location. It was never about my space. It was about feeling safe, secure, loved…and the people that make it so.

I don’t have a home to live in, but I absolutely have a home in the people here, and in my beloved coffee shop. I have a home in my church, where my pastors and church family love me and each other so well. The people who fill these places fill me too, and I feel secure, and loved by Jesus and by them.

But even in finding home, he has taught me that we are never really home here anyway. Home is a good thing. I am glad for those who have one now and I am grateful for the ones I’ve had. I am grateful for the homes I will have in the future. And I am most grateful for the people that have made home, home. But I have a greater appreciation for the already-but-not-yetness of our current state. I have a permanent home. A home more beautiful, and safe, and comforting, and extravagant than I can imagine. But not yet. Not here in this life.

This life is for the Nomad. The adventurer. The daredevil. The vagabond. The one who often has to say goodbye to home and welcome the new, the uncomfortable, the sacrifice. A life of dying to self and living in Christ. It is tough, and beautiful, and exhausting, and sometimes it feels lonely, but reassurance, and belonging, and true security are never far away. Those things are the Lord’s and he readily gives them to us when we follow him.

“The Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

This was the Lord’s first response to the men who wanted to follow him on his way to Jerusalem. Say goodbye to comfort. Say goodbye to physical security. Following me means going where I go. To the unloved, the forgotten, the marginalized. And there’s no room for “safe” in that.

The idea of the nomad life has always appealed to me. I even jokingly said to a friend this week that I would gladly live out of my car and travel the country if it weren’t for the lack of a consistent shower. (I’m still just a little too attached to personal hygiene, ok?) But I admire and am even jealous of those that do.
Still, Wayfarer is part of my identity. Realizing that our home isn't and never was here frees us up to be brazen and bold. To not care what people will say as we passionately pursue the Lord. To make a fool of ourselves in order to proclaim the gospel.

I pray as I learn this truth that it fits itself snuggly into my heart and maybe into yours too. I need a lot of help to let go of my self-consciousness and my desire for security in this world, but that’s what I’d like to do. And at the end of this life as I step out of my tattered drifter’s clothes, I will look to Him who built me and say “I am home."