‘Lord, I’m coming home’

Aman stopped beside a Chic ago news stand which advertised “Papers From Your Old Home Town” and inquired of the boy, “Have you got a Dallas paper?”

“Yes, sir, here you are,” replied the youth, and went on about his work.

The stranger paid the boy, opened the paper, glanced through its columns, and was soon oblivious of everything about him. From time to time a smile lighted up his face or a deeply serious look indicated news less cheerful. When he had finished scanning the paper, he folded it, stuck it into his coat pocket and remarked to the newsboy, “It’s good to get news from back home when a fellow’s been away a few months.”

My brother, Randy, installed and inspected marine elevators all over the world. Once, his job took him to Singapore. He was on a street corner in the evening (this is true) when he heard a shout, “Randy!” On the opposite corner of the intersection, in a city on the other side of the world, was an old friend, R. D. Talasek, from his hometown, Temple. How wonderful!

David was fleeing King Saul. He was near his hometown and suddenly became homesick. He was heavy of heart and low in spirit. In his mind, he could see its streets and remember its landmarks. Second Samuel 23 records his words: “Oh, that someone would give me water to drink from the well of Bethlehem that is by the gate!”

I often miss my hometown. Not the city as it is today but the town of my youth. I miss the playgrounds where we played sandlot baseball. I miss the swimming pools and the lakes where we enjoyed our summers. I think of drive-in theaters on warm summer nights. I remember Avenue M where, up and down, we drove our first cars. I recall the good fortune of growing up with the same friends through high school. The church where I listened to my father preach and where I attended youth meetings and Boy Scout Troop 150. I get homesick.

In the same way, people suffer from homesickness of the soul. In the midst of earthly detritus, there comes surging up within us the passionate desire for spiritual things. Let’s call it “water from the well at Bethlehem.” We become overburdened with the banalities of life and the soul cries out for companionship with the Infinite. Perhaps what Wordsworth declared is true after all: “trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.”

Wanting to wash the dirt and grime, the sin, from our eyes and our hands, we long for purity, goodness and honor. In the midst of vanity and skepticism, we desire assurances that God and good are real that right and truth are eternal, and character is worth every effort we make. Thirst for water from the well at Bethlehem.

Sometimes I believe if all we had of the Bible was Jesus’ story of the son who left home, we would know all of God that is needful. The parable of how the son went into a far country, became destitute and in want. How the son remembered the security and bounty of his father and turned home. How the father, seeing him in the distance, ran to him and threw his arms around him in joy. How that son was “dead,” but now “has come to life.”

Sing again with William Kirkpatrick, “I’ve wandered far away from God–Now I’m coming home; The paths of sin too long I’ve trod–Now I’m coming home. Coming home, coming home, Never more to roam; Open now Thine arms of love–Lord, I’m coming home.”