Home. An idea? A longing? A place? For me, home is the farm where I grew up in Guilford, CT. I have been sojourning in New York City for the past six years, but I can feel it when I am coming back to my home.
Almost as a counter to this innate desire of being rooted to a definite piece of earth there is a sign in the Chapel for the Missionaries of Charity that reads, “Heaven is our true home.”
As many memories as I can muster and as much praise as I can give for the beauty of the New England landscape, the truth is each and every place on this earth is not a permanent dwelling for us. We are made for Heaven. When I was little the house pictured above had a significant amount of beach insulating it from the water, and a sea-barrier of concrete and metal that seemed impenetrable. But whether this house is resurrected from its present form or not, its precarious state indicates that the “here and now” is transient. This time for the living is for us to make our way, by the grace of God, to Heaven.
Below is a link to Robert Frost’s poem “Directive.” It’s meaning still escapes me, but I suspect that it is at least a clue as how to discover the path to Heaven: