I write from my perch on the second floor. A pale, green bedroom I've been glad to call my own again for the past six months, even if our time together is quickly coming to an end. I don't know why I'm writing that, just because it's true and it's a tangible sign of an interior sifting once again.
This earthly tent grows tired of housing herself in a hiking pack, waiting for the next spot to drop stake. I dream of a yard sale this summer, pulling furniture out of storage units and sheds, remnants of a dream-home that never woke up. I mentally categorize all the books that I own, packed away for three years, and check off the ones I will keep, knowing that thousands of books and antique tables and chairs are too heavy to fit in that pack.
Some things are just too heavy to carry around with us.
Those on a pilgrimage pack lightly, they know that here is not their destination, they know that somewhere else is their hope.
Eternity is written on our hearts and we know it, even if we try to forget it sometimes.
Here, in my pale green bedroom, I try to forget it. I try to forget that warning to me several years ago, that I would be tempted to make this world my home and that I must never forget that I am an ambassador and this place is not my home. I have a stack of postcards by my bed, pretty colors that I want so badly to find a place on my wall for, but there's the knowledge that I can't. This room is not my home. It's just one more stop on my pilgrimage.
Where are we journeying to? And where are we journeying from? What is written on our hearts? And what do our mouths confess?
These are the thoughts that rush my head, that clamor for attention above the other pretty things I want to write. I am tired of moving, yes. I am tired of staying places and never really living there. I am tired of my journey, but it never eclipses the destination that is written on my heart.
I am a product of Heaven, from it I came and to it I return, everything else is just a stop along the way.
This earthly tent grows tired of housing herself in a hiking pack, waiting for the next spot to drop stake. I dream of a yard sale this summer, pulling furniture out of storage units and sheds, remnants of a dream-home that never woke up. I mentally categorize all the books that I own, packed away for three years, and check off the ones I will keep, knowing that thousands of books and antique tables and chairs are too heavy to fit in that pack.
Some things are just too heavy to carry around with us.
"Blessed is the man whose heart is in you, whose heart is set on a pilgrimage to Zion"
Those on a pilgrimage pack lightly, they know that here is not their destination, they know that somewhere else is their hope.
Eternity is written on our hearts and we know it, even if we try to forget it sometimes.
Here, in my pale green bedroom, I try to forget it. I try to forget that warning to me several years ago, that I would be tempted to make this world my home and that I must never forget that I am an ambassador and this place is not my home. I have a stack of postcards by my bed, pretty colors that I want so badly to find a place on my wall for, but there's the knowledge that I can't. This room is not my home. It's just one more stop on my pilgrimage.
Where are we journeying to? And where are we journeying from? What is written on our hearts? And what do our mouths confess?
These are the thoughts that rush my head, that clamor for attention above the other pretty things I want to write. I am tired of moving, yes. I am tired of staying places and never really living there. I am tired of my journey, but it never eclipses the destination that is written on my heart.
I am a product of Heaven, from it I came and to it I return, everything else is just a stop along the way.
posted by Lore at 27.4.08
1 Comments:
Wow, Lore. What a powerful line: "I am tired of my journey, but it never eclipses the destination that is written on my heart." You are SUCH an inspiration. -Ann
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