Military kids are remarkable. They can sleep anywhere, and often do. Many do not live in the same place for more than a year. And if they do, they will see their father repeatedly disappear for seven or eight months at a time; sometimes to dangerous places.
They learn to live like gypsies. These kids were in California a few months ago, now they are renting an apartment outside of Phoenixville. They have some favorite toys with them but most of their belongings are in storage in another state. They tend not to get too attached to things. Yet they are almost always happy. They are forced to live light, and I think it keeps them light-hearted. It is a lesson I must learn, as I have filled my life with possessions and feel mostly burden.
They make friends quickly, and easily because they have to. They move from base to base; from town to town; from church to church. The other day we had a bunch of folks over for the NFC championship game (go Eagles!) and my grandson met another boy. They chatted outside and my grandson asked him to come to his birthday party. We said, “really?”, he said simply, “yeah, we’re all friended now”. Can you imagine walking through this world each day just expecting to find new friends? What a glorious impulse. Another lesson for my jaded heart.
My heart has always been filled with wanderlust. I would have moved my family every two years because of my own restlessness. But we moved to Phoenixville over thirty years ago. It is an old Pennsylvania steel town. The steel is gone now, but the town is still vibrant and charming. Life got busy, and I woke up one day with a bunch of kids, one of them severely disabled; we had become very immobile. It was as if God had said to me “Sit! Stay!” So, we stayed. We grew roots, and the town has grown along with us.
It occurs to me now, as I sit here with my grandchildren asleep on the floor of my study, that something happened while we were making other plans and reacting to all that life threw at us. Something else had grown up around us. A home. When it is at its best it is like a stable mountain that the kids, and grandkids, can always wander back to. Which is funny, because to me it has always felt like a slow-motion riot. My kids now refer to it as “the 406”, which is our house number.
There is much we can learn from these military kids.
Make friends quickly and easily, without a lot of expectations. When they cannot count on much, they always have each other, so do we. We tend to live heavy; they travel light; it is better to live light. Every day is an adventure, and they are happy with simple blessings, like a snowfall; they have not seen much of that. They miss their father terribly, yet they do their best to live as if he was with them; shouldn’t we all? Their mother is an extraordinary woman. She has done an amazing job navigating the military lifestyle, homeschooling, making friends and finding support. These kids are growing to be strong and resilient due to her Herculean effort.
But we all want a home. The human heart longs for a place called home. Our culture feels so rootless today. We want to belong. We can only be wandering stars in the firmament for so long. Where do I belong? Where is home?
I want these sleeping kids to know that their true home is not a house, but a kingdom. That we are waiting, and working, for the return of the king. When his kingdom comes in full there will be no military kids there. Not because they are not welcome, but because there will be no militaries; it will be a kingdom of peace. They will no longer be bounced from church to church. There will be no churches, because in that day, the whole earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.
Until then?
Until then I want them to know that as long as I am able to make it so, there will be an old house in Phoenixville they can always call home.
Peace.