A few months ago, after being picked up from school to head to the airport (we were flying back to the US for Christmas), my daughter said to me, tears in her eyes, “Mom, I’m always missing someone and somewhere. When I am in Rwanda, I miss my family and friends in America. When I am in America, I miss my home and life and friends in Rwanda. Will I ever stop missing something?”
It had been a chaotic day. I had been running around buying gifts to bring home for supporters. I’d been pulled over for a document check and had been unable to pay the speeding ticket that I had been unknowingly awarded that week, which caused a stressful situation. Packing for four vastly different destinations in three weeks, the voice in my head was constantly telling me that I was forgetting something. Swimsuit? Check. Heavy coat? Check. Passport? I think so . . .
“Will I ever stop missing something, Mama?”
Her words abruptly brought the hamster wheel in my head to a grinding halt. As tears welled up in my own eyes, I slowly told her, “No, baby. You really won’t. It’s a great privilege to love so many places and people in this world, but it also comes with the heartache of always missing someone and always having somewhere else you long to be.”
Of course, this answer wasn’t satisfying. It’s a hard thing to wrap our minds around as adults, let alone when you are nine. As she buried her face in my shoulder, I tried to convince myself too—this is a great privilege. Even when it comes with great heartache.
The thought occurred to me that this was, in reality, a sign of health and enculturation. When we first moved overseas, I counted down the months, weeks, and days until our next trip to the US. I couldn’t WAIT to get out of Rwanda. I didn’t miss it one bit when I was gone.
And now, at the end of the longest stint we’d done in our host country, I . . . didn’t want to go? Was I really sad to be leaving my home, my life, and journeying back to my passport country? That was a sign of growth if I’d ever seen one.
Reflecting back on this quick but emotional exchange, I see that my daughter’s emotions mirror so much of what the Christian life is meant to feel like. We are meant to love the people around us and be grateful for where the Lord has placed us, but always be yearning for our heavenly home. It’s a privilege to live and love so many people in so many places, but our home and hope is with our Father.
As we anticipate the resurrection this month, many of us are yearning for heaven. Ministry is slow. Growth is hard to measure. How do we quantify success, anyway? We are lonely, discouraged, burnt out, sick, and out of ideas. Lent is feeling . . . Lent-y.
It is in this place of yearning and difficult anticipation, that the ache for home meets us, and the hope of heaven can become our consolation. It’s okay. We aren’t meant for this world! But Christ has already come and conquered death to bring us a new life in his kingdom, and we get to invite others in. We get to build that kingdom here, now. We labor to bring the life, and the place we long for, into fruition.
As I snuggled my little girl, our breathing beginning to regulate, I said a silent prayer of thank you and help me in the same breath. Thank you for the gift it is to always be longing for something, here or in heaven. Help me point my daughter’s gaze towards Hope and the promise of the life of the world to come. What a privilege, indeed.
“So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him.” 2 Corinthians 5:6–9 (ESV)
What are your “thank you” and “help me” prayers right now?
