A few months ago one of my sisters who lives in Texas sent me a text. The message only said that her daughter had sent the photo to her earlier that morning. Because the image was small, at first I couldn’t make out what it was. As I enlarged it for a closer look, I could see that it was something burning and some firefighters spraying water on it. Only after several seconds did it dawn on me that what I was looking at was the house I grew up in as it was in the process of burning to the ground. It was an early morning fire, and thankfully no one was injured, but the house was a total loss. Once the fire was mostly out, they bulldozed the rest to be sure no smoldering embers remained. Nothing was left standing except the old carport that my father had added to it when I was just a kid.
402 Cherry Street was an old house – well over 100 years old – and built entirely of wood, so I’m sure the conflagration lasted only minutes. It had passed out of our family long ago, after both of my parents died, but I used to drive by when I was in Merkel just to see how it looked, and just to remember. I never had any expectation (or desire) of living there again. Still, knowing that it was gone made me sad.
This was the house where most of my growing-up years took place. It was from this house that I graduated from high school and then left to attend college. It was the house where I lived when Linda and I began dating, and from which I left for our wedding. Both of my sisters likewise got married while living at this house, and it’s where we lived when my younger sister was born. It’s the last place where I saw my mother before she suddenly passed away. So many memories attached to one old house – and now it’s gone.
As I looked at that photo and some that came later in the day, I recalled that just days earlier I had preached a sermon on Philippians 3:20-21. In that great text, Paul compares the hope of faithful believers to those whose “god is their belly” and who “glory in their shame, with minds set on earthly things” (3:19). By contrast, Paul says, “But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself.”
As the old song says, “This world is not my home; I’m just a-passin’ through.” And those photos brought home that reality in a vivid way. Nothing here is permanent, and we are not permanently here, nor should we want to be. We are on our way somewhere else, a place prepared by God, “a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens” (2 Corinthians 5:1). So we’d best not get too attached to this world, but rather look forward to being at home with God – always, forever.
I’m sorry the old house burned. I feel badly for the folks who were living there when it happened, and hope their loss wasn’t too great. But at the same time, I am grateful for the reminder that neither that house nor any other on this earth can be a permanent dwelling place for any of us. And I’m thankful that, because of Jesus and His sacrifice, this world really isn’t my home. God has something much better waiting for me, and for all who love Him!
– Tommy South