Maybe You CAN'T Go Home Again...

As Nicole informed you in the previous entry, I was touring my erstwhile hometown of Friendswood, Texas, today, only to discover that the house I lived in there-- from about 1970 to December 1978; I consider them extremely formative years-- had been destroyed some years ago in a flood. I really can't put my finger yet on just why, but I have been deeply touched by the house's absence. I mean, it's not like I have any particularly happy memories of our family's life in the house that once stood at 8 Haverford Lane, save the birth of my most excellent little brother, Sean, in late 1972. Still, I find myself somewhat bereft as I write this.
I suppose, if I dig deeply enough, my grief rises out of the now false impression that whatever has happened,happens or will happen in my so-far peripatetic life-- I have, as you may know, lived literally all over the country and in Europe; spent six months in the Middle East for Desert Storm-- I always had the psychological crutch of that the forlorn piece of Houston area real estate-- owned by others since our departure for Hawaii in '78; I felt I could always say that I came from Texas; in my heart at least, I had the emotional anchor of that house in Friendswood; I could, if I ever chose, just like I did as recently as 1992, always go back to the Quaker's Landing subdivision and spend a few moments stopped in front of the lawn that I mowed a hundred times and feel like, whether I ever actually crossed the threshhold again in this life, I belonged somewhere, that I was connected to some physical place on this earth...
And, just now, as I attempt a definition of my relationship with this now empty lot, I feel a surge of gratitude, that one of my last pretenses for lingering over any remaining alliance with the things of this world have been shattered. In a single stroke I have been graciously freed to pursue, virtually unfettered, my discipleship to Jesus Christ. After all, my true home is in Heaven. Maranatha and amen...