This week we’ve been packing up for yet another move. My wife came across this poem I wrote for her a couple years ago, which I had posted at the very beginning of starting this blog. She requested that I post it again. And, seeing that she is a very wise and intuitive woman, I am happy to do so. I hope it can serve as one window into how those of us who embrace semi-nomadic missions lifestyles for the sake of the gospel wrestle with the costs – and hope in the world to come.
Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life. (Mark 10:29-30 ESV)
A Hundredfold Homes We have lived with rich and poor In places some will not or can’t. And found there joy, and doors To life, and friends, and won’t Forget the promise, one hundred-fold. We need it dearly every time We move again and say goodbye And home becomes a house – again. We do it all for Him. True, we know the cost is real, That mingled joy of rootlessness. But I have heard the king has rooms And rooms and rooms and worlds. Perhaps a place where mountains meet The sea, a house with orchards on a hill. With pen and table, porch and sky And paper and books, maybe some tea. A pipe! And fire. Yes, room to host and reminisce (With friends and of course the King himself) The glory that we saw In our hundred fleeting homes. Children born and born again, The needy fed, the lost redeemed, The straying won, the faithful trained. A hundred tents of light Soon dismantled yet again. For the world was ours, but not quite yet. We don’t yet know the fullness of The joy, although we know the taste. For each new place a portion sings And each new move the old refrain: The promises are coming true Before our eyes – a hundred-fold! And new creation, forever home. Is coming, coming, like the dawn. So let us drink and to the full The joy of each new set of walls. For they are fleeting like the fall And shine unique, eternal. Remember the talk of camels and tents? And Shelby Park, and Kingston’s rooms And Sarkenar or St James Court? Yes, more to come, if grace allows And we shall thank the king for each, With faith and joy await to see The next of our one hundred homes That really are not ours at all. The glory – they are forever ours, And really are not ours at all.