Then a teacher of the law came to him and said,
“Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go.”
Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,
but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”
Today was supposed to be an average day. My plans for the morning included filming a video for a supporting church at local ancient ruins, followed by a picnic lunch with my husband. I was going to plan a prayer retreat for next month. I would then mend a pair of pants.
And then everything changed with a single text message.
Now rather than a picnic lunch, I’m going through our office, item by item, to eliminate anything that might incriminate us as missionaries. Instead of having dinner with a visiting team, I’m making a list of everything we want to keep if we have to leave immediately and someone has to pack our worldly possessions. It’s a strange feeling to categorize our entire lives into ‘what is worth keeping’ and ‘what can be sold to the highest bidder.’
Right now our house isn’t our home.
Instead, it’s a load of stuff tying me to a place
that may no longer want me.
I’d gotten comfortable here. This country seemed so safe, so welcoming. I had made a home and filled it with things I love. I’ll miss it if we have to leave.
If we must leave, I can—I will—create a home in our new place. I’ll be smarter next time. I won’t be lulled into the complacency that leads to purchasing stuff that isn’t absolutely necessary.
I’ve learned the importance of living
with less: Home is not what’s inside it; it’s what you make of it.
The funny thing is that I’ve learned this lesson before. I’ve left a country on
short notice for the very same reason.
I hurriedly packed all my belongings—surprisingly little at that time—and created a home somewhere else. But at the time, I was determined to make this place my home.
My definition of home has changed. It no longer includes superfluous things like upright freezers and patio furniture. Home is a place for my husband and I to be. Nothing more.
by Eva Bridges*, a Live Dead missionary