More than anything, our homes shape who we are, how we view ourselves and the world around us. Our homes inform our decisions and shape our identities. But further, it is grief that shapes our homes. Think of the times when a parent loses a job, their health, or even a child. Think of the family that has been split apart through divorce or strained relationships. Or the family that has lost their entire home to a flood or fire. Surely you have your own story of how grief has shaped your home.
Often, we think of home as the place where our family lives, be it our mom, dad, siblings, spouse, and/or kids. Like vines on trees, we are interwoven with the things and people around us. When we lose someone or something attached to our sense of home, something shifts within us. It changes us. And when home is the place where our people are, when they die, home feels different too. It somehow feels wrong and confusing without them. This was the case with my dad.
He often stood at the end of the driveway looking for me. Anytime I told him I was headed “home,” he would anticipate the time of my arrival in town by standing outside to wait for me. Before I could get to the house, I’d see him sometimes in the middle of the road, watching for my car. Those moments were the sweetest — and sometimes annoying if I’m honest. Yet when I look back on them, I can’t help but smile, because this was just one of the ways my dad showed his love for me.
In my childhood, I called a small town in eastern North Carolina home. I lived with my mom, dad, and my three sisters in a modest three-bedroom one-bathroom house. With five women plus my dad, the one-bathroom aspect got old quickly, yet we somehow managed. Our parents raised us in a Christian home, and, though loving, it wasn’t perfect. It was flawed — at times, broken. There were seasons of struggle both financially and relationally. There were seasons of great joy, and there were seasons of great trial, heartache, and grief. Yet, through it all, God was with us. He was our anchor; we had made him our foundation.
After Dad died, it was hard to go back there, because home didn’t feel like home. As soon as I started down Wilson Street, I started to feel the weight of grief in my body. Because my body kept score, it anticipated all the feelings I would have about Dad not being there, missing from this place I called home for years and years. Now, to add insult to injury, the house that I grew up in, which held so many memories, was recently demolished. My childhood home is gone forever. It grieves me.
In grief, we think back on everything about our homes, whether good, bad, or indifferent. This is partly due to how our brains are wired to map out our day-to-day lives. When faced with the absence of the most important people in our lives, our brains respond by trying to solve a problem. According to neuroscientist Mary-Frances O’Connor, our brains are trying to find our loved ones. But the reality is, after they die, they can no longer be found in the dimensions of space and time. This is where the pain of grief comes from: there is a problem that cannot be solved. But eventually, our brains learn to navigate this pain. Our brains not only hold the memories of what once was, but, after loss and upon grieving, they make a home for grief. They make room for its many facets and variant emotions in rooms that we may choose to open or keep sealed, reshaping how we see the world, others, and ourselves.
Janna Ireland, Teacup Saga, 2018. Digital photo. Dimensions variable.
In this process of reshaping, as we navigate the grief, God graciously makes a provision for us. I am reminded of these encouraging verses from John:
Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also (Jn 14:1-3).
These verses are forever etched in my mind and on my heart — my dad recited them days before he died. It was only by God’s grace that he had the strength to do so. As he spoke those words, they comforted him, and they comforted me.
May they comfort you even now in whatever you are facing. May you know that our forever home is prepared for us. And that there is room for all of us there.
Our earthly homes aren’t perfect; they never will be. We all long for a better place. Yes, we are home here on earth, but this place is not all there is. Even the Earth is groaning (Rom 8:22), awaiting a better time and place. We are all homesick for heaven. The author of Hebrews hints at a heavenly perspective: “For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come” (Heb 13:14).
Yet because we are here in this imperfect earthly home filled with trouble, we grieve. And though we grieve, we do so with hope. We hold both truths: In this life, we will have trouble, but we also have God. He has given us the Holy Spirit, our Comforter, to be with us in times of grief. And further, God has sent Jesus ahead of us to prepare an eternal home for us in Heaven. This home is far better than any home we could ever imagine.
Eternity is a long time, and this life, which is often filled with loss, grief, pain, and suffering, is but a vapor. We have heaven to look forward to — heaven, the home we were ultimately made for. The home where there will be no more tears and no more death. The home where we will see our Savior face-to-face, radiant as the sun, because he is the Light that will light this forever home. And as we wait, we pray, “Let your kingdom come, let your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” (Mt 6:10).
great thoughts, thanks for sharing these.