When I drive through the upstate of South Carolina, there’s something about signs for “Columbia” that make my mind and heart fall silent. That’s the exit that takes me home. It always gives me pause– I could take it, and even if I didn’t know where I was for a time, it would take me to a place that I know, to a place that knows me. All other thoughts are driven away by the vision I have of steering off for that exit, of ditching everything to head home. I see myself doing it. Every single time, I tell you. And I never do it, because I’m always on my way back from there, and on my way to adult responsibilities. But oh the solace I take in savoring that thought. I let it linger in my thoughts for as long as my heart needs it.
In my whirlwind of a trip home this past weekend, as I drove back to the big city, I felt that same ache at the sight of those exits. And being in the reflective mood I was, I asked myself— why this ache? And I thought how it wasn’t just the place I needed. It was the slowness. The lingering in conversation, in company. The barefoot on carpet feeling, and morning light flooding the gleaming white curtains, the depth and sweetness smell of Momma’s cream and coffee, and so many more things– but all of it paired with togetherness, with time to talk– and in togetherness, the forgetting of time, the slow forgetting of the world. This is home.
Growing up, the Book of Common Prayer’s birthday prayer was hung over each of our beds in calligraphy. As I passed my days in that little room with that prayer hanging over me day and night, I always thought that asking Jesus to “keep me unspotted from the world” meant that he would keep the world from seeing me, from spotting me out in this crowd of billions. I always thought we were praying that he would hide me away from it so that the world would not know me. I honestly believe he did that in my childhood, kept the world from seeing and knowing me. Perhaps that’s what I’m longing for when I see those exit signs.
As I stepped out of the recital reception at church this past Sunday, I walked into the empty hallway, my footsteps echoing. I couldn’t stay to visit, because I had to drive the 3 hours to go back to my busy life. I made for the restroom, but as I passed the open doors of the nave, I felt his eyes on me, and I had to stop. Without thinking, my fingers found the holy water they’d missed in the rush of earlier, and as I gazed into his eyes, I drew his cross on me, feeling as though his own dear hands were marking me. I had been blessed. The happy, chattering din of the reception was met with this holy silence, and it could not have been more perfect, this moment with him. I knelt– whispering into the silence– I love you, Lord. And I wondered about all the words whispered to him in that nave.
As I was driving about an hour later, I remembered the lyrics to one of my favorite Andrew Peterson songs:
“ But I want you to know
When the joy that you feel
Leaves a terrible ache in your bones
It's the voice of Jesus
Calling you back home.
[...] So listen, little girl
Somewhere there's a king
Who will love you forever
And nothing in the world
Could ever come between
You, my love, and this lover.
So when I kiss you at night
And I turn out the light
And I tell you you're never alone
It's the voice of Jesus
Calling you his own.”
Jesus calls us home and calls us his own, and maybe those are one and the same things. Maybe when we get lost in true fellowship, we’re drawn into the courts of his kingdom– maybe the world loses sight of us for a moment, and its infernal clock is replaced in our chests with slow breathing, with deep breathing, with the heartbeat of a quietude only trust knows.
What if those longings– the ones for home, for Sion, are Jesus’ mark on us? The cross perpetually on our foreheads, saying to the world “this one belongs to the King– she shall not be consumed.” And in a different breath, a murmuring to us: “you are mine, little one. Here– here is a vision of my kingdom– just a little while and you will be here with me.”
It may be a strange thought, but I wonder if without the Eucharist, without Christ’s sacrifice for us, without him coming to dwell within us– maybe we would not have those homesick longings. Perhaps it is his body and his blood that show us what heaven tastes like, and that gives us the ability to taste it in fellowship, in beauty, in love. We are already his temples. We already have heaven dwelling inside of us. Oh dear Lord, is this why my heart aches so? Because eternity is trying to fill it, but my heart, I know, is too small, too frail? Oh give me a heart in which eternity can stretch her long, limber limbs and breathe easy. Over the years of my life, expand the walls of my heart to the height of Mount Sion, fit me more and more for your kingdom. I will take all the aches in the world if it means glimpsing more and more of Sion’s light, if it means more of eternity is set in my heart.
