Dwelling in Place
by Megan Huwa
Jerod and I bought our first house in 2006, and I say this honestly—
It was greater than I ever dreamt of living in.
Once we moved into 303 3rd Street, we created a narrative of the previous homeowners. He worked on his engine under the best light in the house, the dining room chandelier that looked like a giant alien eye. Thus, the light tan carpet was anointed with oil spots. The blue and white kitchen linoleum held up well, and from just the right angle, the flowery pattern looked like hundreds of blue men with mustaches. The kitchen’s width spanned fingertip to fingertip. In one position, the wife could open the fridge, start the microwave, wash a dish, and stare out the kitchen window onto the open fields of geese taking flight.
I realized these oddities years later, but initially, I was overcome with the delight of the thought of my own kitchen and vaulted ceilings with daylight pouring in.
Then a curious thing began to happen: I began to see my childhood home in our 3rd Street home. I immersed my hands in the sudsy hot water in the kitchen window above the sink and thought of how often I watched my mother do this as she looked out onto the grass. I also hung a clock above the kitchen sink and window and set it ahead 10 minutes because, for farmers, time could be arbitrary, but a new season was sure. And as the seconds ticked by, I wept for my parents even though they lived only eight miles away.
Looking back, I think I lamented the realization that Jerod and I were on our own then, and a strange sense of loss accompanied this: the loss of innocence and the cost of experience in this world.
Like many of you during this extraordinary time, I have this deep, quavering prayer that regardless of the cost, I would thrive in this season because I see the promise of God making all things new as spring ushers in resplendent hues that shock me to the present. And I see these glimpses as the Lord inviting me to dream and to dwell on the glimpses of the land that He’s tending for me and to use the present and the former days of home as mere foretastes of my home eternal.
As a kid, I spent a good portion of my summers building a treehouse with my older brother Tyler. A few weeks ago, my mom mailed me a Kodak photo of Tyler and me in our treehouse. Tyler’s grin and my toothless smile and wild blond hair emerged from the sticks perched around us.
Glimpses of serene, simpler days tend to imprint you deeply with a longing you chase your entire life—a longing for Home, a secret place to rest hidden from the storm.
Since high school, my writing and studies have connected to the land and home. I think I chase after words hoping to relive these moments for a second time, yet, these are still glimpses and shadows of what is to come. Of late, I have clung to these words:
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust’” (KJV; Psalm 91:1-2).
We are invited to dwell in the “secret place of the Most High.” God is a safe haven, and further, nothing can pull us from His reach. In this secret place are safety, reprieve, and rest, and while He hides and conceals us, He is with us.
For those who have placed their faith in Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, we are encouraged to fixate on the glory of our future land:
“It will be a shelter and shade from the heat of the day, and a refuge and hiding place from the storm and rain” (Isaiah 4:6).
What about the time that passes in between my figurative land becoming my literal eternal home? This is the costly marathon—the glimpses not yet glorified.
And the land we occupy between these? the treehouse, the farm, the 3rd street home, and now our Bell Bluff condo. Today—it is our home, our shelter in place, our dwelling in place.
John wrote of the day we set foot on our new land and Whose presence will dwell amongst us, redeeming our loss and sorrow:
“. . . ‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and He will dwell with them. They will be His people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’ He who was seated on the throne said, ‘I am making everything new!’” (Revelation 21:3–5).
Last night I listened for a song in the night—the thump, thump, thump of rain on cardboard outside—but no song came until the morning:
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.
Blessings all mine with ten thousand beside!
Great is Thy faithfulness.
This morning I looked out our Bell Bluff Avenue kitchen window onto our postage-stamp garden, and as I fixed my eyes on the colony of birdhouses, I wondered, what will it be like on that day? That day when the veils and shadows are lifted, and the glimpses are fully realized in His presence?
Just then, the wren sang a panic on the fence as she waited, and our rose reached its yellow buds toward the sun. A tiny weed flowered a purple bloom because even weeds bloom in spring.
And He gently reminded me: Look, behold, for I am making all things new.
