This isn’t the blog I planned for this day.  In fact, it’s just the opposite.

Those of you who have followed my writings for some time are aware that this is normally an exciting month for me—the month when I return to my beloved Rocky Mountains in Estes Park, Colorado.  These first moments of May usually find me packing my belongings, reading through the Estes Park Facebook page, and counting down the hours until departure.  For me, May is associated with only good things:  receiving blessings, fulfilling dreams, exploring mountains, coming home.

In Colorado, I’ve stood on the slopes of Longs Peak and gazed thousands of feet upwards to its sheer rock face—the Diamond, they call it, and it truly does glint like a jewel on the mountainside.  I’ve hidden in the brush on the edges of a lake and watched a cranky bull moose stomp its clunky hooves in a shallow stream and devour mouthfuls of water-plants.  I’ve been surprised by the season’s first snowfall in a mountain gorge and caught the delicate snowflakes on my tongue.  I’ve been awakened at night by the haunting bugles of the elk calling their herds.  I’ve smelled the hypnotizing aroma of the blue spruce, and I’ve raced in the shadow of the eagles skimming over Lake Estes, and I’ve climbed to the hidden mirror of Lake Haiyaha and seen the ice fields of Andrews Glacier, stubborn remnant from the Ice Age, glistening in the sun.  

I love these grand adventures.  Each one makes me more keenly aware of the heartbeat of God.  And I love sharing what I learn with all of you.  Many of you have told me how you look forward to my mountain posts, how reading my words transports you to the High Peaks right alongside me.  The posts and photos from Estes Park are some of my most popular articles, and for good reason.  It’s my privilege to be able to give you a glimpse of Colorado—and of how the majesty of God echoes from every mountain.  

But Colorado doesn’t just bring me smiles or give me good stories to tell or permit me to indulge my passion for wilderness.  Colorado, you see, brings me home. 

I may have been born in the modest valleys of Arkansas, but my heart-home is Colorado, where the mountains scrape the clouds from the sky.  As we drive west across the Great Plains, I hail every town along our route as an old friend, a stepping-stone to an awesome destination.  Even now, I can say the towns in my sleep:  Broken Arrow… Sand Springs… Tulsa… Salina… Russell… Kanorado… Burlington… Denver… Longmont… Lyons…  I record our progress and count down the miles and invariably cry when, somewhere near Denver, I catch my first glimpse of the mountains, etched along the horizon line.  

“I don’t know why or how I love the Rockies so much, but I do know that I can’t live without them,” I once wrote in my journal.  Perhaps the words sound melodramatic, but believe me when I say they are true in a way I can’t frame in neatly structured prose.  When I am in Colorado, I’m the best version of myself—the closest I ever am to my true self.  I feel at peace—no white-knuckle worries to field, no expectations to meet, no questions to answer.  I feel brave—somehow, breathing the wild, sharp High Country air reminds me that I’ll live forever.  I feel hopeful—during my darkest seasons, it’s been my travels to Estes Park that have soothed me, silenced me, and quite literally saved me.  And I carry the sparks of that fire with me, and in terror or trials, the courage I learned in the mountains rings in my soul.  So back in Arkansas, even when I’m chained with fear, or tormented by uncertainty, or harassed with doubts and questions—when I’m sick or sad or lonely or lost—I face the western horizon, picturing the glorious mountains that are still there, even when we’re apart.  And I remind myself:  May is coming.  I’m going home to the mountains.  I will be brave; I can make it just a moment longer. 

But this May, the promise of the mountains has been shattered.  

There’s no need for me to wax eloquent on the evils of coronavirus or the restrictions of social distancing or the limitations of quarantine.  This isn’t a news story or a political commentary or a science article, and so I simply state that for now, the mountains are off-limits to me.  We will not be loading into our RV, we will not be crossing state lines, and we will not be traveling to Colorado this May. 

Please understand—I’m well aware that this is far, so far, from the worst consequence of this outbreak.  We’re reeling from a damaged economy—many people, including myself, have lost work.  We’re faced with frightening disease—illness and death seem to be lurking around every corner.  We’ve been shut off from our neighbors and trapped in our houses, we’re dealing with shortages and hysteria, we’re rearranging our plans and lamenting weddings that weren’t and clinging to the conflicting opinions of government officials.  In the midst of such desolation, I feel almost guilty for bemoaning canceled travel plans.  But you see, I’m not whining over a pleasure deferred.  I’m grieving a hope destroyed.  I cannot be in my homeland this May.  I don’t know when I can be again.  And in the meantime, I look around with tear-filled eyes and think, “No…this is not home.”

And that brings me to the purpose for this blog.  I’m not writing to vent my personal feelings over my homesickness; I’m writing because today, we’re all homesick.  Some, like me, may be hungering for places—the house of relatives you’re not allowed to visit, the place of your former employment, the restaurant where you always met friends.  Others are homesick for less tangible things—the sense of safety you once cherished, the trust you felt for authorities, the ease with which you took for granted the ability to go grocery shopping without fear.  Not everyone longs to see mountains; some just want to see friends, or fellow church members, or the café on the corner.  Not everyone wants to go hiking; some want to go back to work, play in the band again, commute to a classroom, or sit in a cubicle.  But mark my words—no matter what we yearn for today, we are all homesick.

I understand.  I do.  This pandemic has raised questions we thought we’d never have to answer and stirred fears that lay dormant in the depths of our souls.  It’s stolen chunks of our security and left the rest spider-veined with crumbling cracks.  It’s gouged out the rhythm of daily life—there were so many things, such little things, that we didn’t realize formed the bedrock of our existence, and now they’ve been suddenly, irreparably, ripped away.  With me, you’re probably thinking, “No…this is not home.”

That’s why today, I don’t want to deliver a profound lesson I’ve learned or relate a powerful anecdote from nature.  Today, I just want to sit with you, wherever you are, and experience the homesickness.  Because this feeling of incompleteness is uncomfortable—but it holds both a reminder and a promise.

The reminder?  This is not our home.  

The promise?  We do have one.

“This world is not my home; I’m just a-passing through.”  We sing this old hymn with gusto.  Yes, we know we’re not here permanently.  Yes, we understand that nothing here lasts.  Yet at the same time, we too often fall into the trap of living as if we’re here to stay.  Our plans become our focal point.  Our accomplishments become our idols.  We gaze with pride and anticipation down the corridors of our lives.  C. S. Lewis insightfully addressed this reality:  “Prosperity knits a man to the world.  He feels that he is finding his place in it, while really it is finding its place in him” (The Screwtape Letters).  This world becomes the end-all in our minds, and Heaven is relegated to nothing more than a hazy blot on the far horizon.  

But then a reminder comes.  Sometimes it’s in the form of a tragic illness.  Sometimes it’s a sense of sadness we can’t shake.  Sometimes it’s the loss of a friend or an act of terrorism or a terrible news report.  Or sometimes it’s CoVid-19, which combines elements of all the above.  The reminder, however it comes, is sharp.  It probes the depths of our convictions, it divides our muddled loyalties, and it pierces the hot-air balloon of our apathetic satisfaction.  It comes on a tidal wave of pain and grief and uncertainty, yet it’s one of God’s greatest tools.  Because He likes to watch us writhe in agony?  No.  Because it sends our eyes upward toward Him like nothing else can.  Like people waking up in an unfamiliar room, we immediately know:  we don’t belong here.  This is not right.  This is not home.  

And that’s where the promise comes in.

“But as it is, they [the people of God] desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city” (Hebrews 11:16 ESV).  A heavenly country.  Doesn’t that sound good right now?  A place where death is banished?  A place without sin or sickness?  A place where we can forget our fears, demolish our doubts, and bask in the presence of Jesus?  I can close my eyes and envision the splendor of the Rockies, but I can’t begin to imagine the glory of Heaven!  

The Bible is a bit reticent on the details of our coming country.  (Apparently, God felt it was more important for people to know how to get to Heaven than what to expect when they did.) We know it’s a perfect place, restored to the image of how God intended life to be.  We know it’s inhabited only by those who love God.  And we know it’s a place where God’s will is enacted in its fullest extent.  But while we may clamor for more details like tourists wanting a travel guide, what more do we need to know?  An eternity without fear or limitations, spent in the personal presence of Love Himself!  Whatever the specifics, that’s more than enough to whet our anticipation.  

“In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you.  If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also” (John 14:2-3 NASB).  Right now, we hold this promise:  Jesus is preparing a place for us.  But more importantly, He is preparing us for the place.  What if that’s what He’s doing—right now?  What if all this heartache and homesickness is loosening our grip on earth, teaching us to find our fulfillment in only Him?  What if this crisis was required to open our eyes to our own weakness, strip us of our feeble defenses, and bring us to our knees?

I can’t solve the virus.  I can’t resurrect the economy.  I’m not a scientist or an immunologist or a prophet with a trumpet-toned message from on high.  I’m just a girl who misses my mountains—but I know I’m going there someday.  And although I know this is not my home, I have a destination beyond my wildest dreams, a more sure hope than Estes Park ever could be.  So for now, yes, we’re homesick.  But instead of using this time to bemoan what isn’t, let’s renew our joy in what will be.  When we leave this groaning world behind, we’ll be ushered into the presence of the Lamb Who died for us, and we’ll spend eternity in our splendid home.  What glorious love!

Did you enjoy this blog? How has being “homesick” during this time strengthened your faith? Let me know in the comments!