Home is. . .

. . . where the magabooks are.  (Warning:  What follows is an extremely sentimental tribute to OHC canvassing programs.  Non canvassers read at your own risk.) 

The rain is falling around me as I search the edge of the street for something that looks familiar.  A few wrong turns, a quick consultation with Google Maps, and (gasp) a phone call for better directions and I am finally on the right road.  I am searching for home.  I can't stand not being home on Friday night.  I am looking for home in an unfamiliar city in Northern Georgia. 

I think of the Facebook message that lead me here and the drive down from Tennessee in the sunset and first hours of the Sabbath.  Mostly I think of me hope of spending at least a few hours with old friends (I don't even know for sure which ones) who share my love of souls, scripture, and spiritual consecration.  Finally I can make out the words "Seventh-day Adventist Church" on the glowing sign next to a dark driveway.  Within seconds I was parked next to a familiar looking gray fifteen passenger van with an Arkansas license plate.   Through the window I could see familiar faces gathered in little groups in the fellowship hall, some talking, some reading Bibles, one strumming a guitar.  How many Friday evenings have I spent like this! 

I run to the door and knock.  Within minutes I am surrounded by fellow OHC canvassers.  Heidi Hunt is thrilled (my surprise worked!)  Excitedly I begin catching my brothers and sisters up on the last events in my life.  In the middle of my speech/conversation James Prest enters the room.  He walks up and shakes my hand.  "I heard your voice from the other room,"  he says, "And the first thing I thought was 'Hot Dog!"  (You may have to know James to completely understand.)  Everyone laughs.  Ace laughs so hard he falls off his chair.  (You may have to know Ace to completely understand.)  No doubt about it, I am home. 

Everything about this setting says OHC canvassing program.  From the magabook boxes lined up along the wall, to the piles of fruit and bread on the corner table, to the radios plugged in to every socket in the room, to a Privett brother or two playing "Come Thou Fount" on the guitar," this was the environment that did so much to shape the last four and a half years of my life.  This is the environment where my faith was tested to the max.  This is where I have gotten discouraged, nearly quite, and been inspired to try again.  I laughingly think that I am as at home in a sleeping bag on the floor of an Adventist church in a strange city as I am in my own bed.  I drop my bags in the mother's room next to Heidi and Natalie and try to sleep.   (Yeah right, I have barely talked to Heidi in two months and we are supposed to be quiet and go to sleep?  Girls will be girls. . . not an excuse just a statement.) 

Morning comes early.  I turn over and consider sleeping in but am overwhelmed by a burden on my heart.  The excitement of last night is overshadowed by the burdens of student teaching.  Heidi turns and notices my tears.  Gently she draws me to explain what is wrong and points me back to Jesus.  We grab our laptops and go to the fellowship hall.  Together we read a passage that so completely addressed the issues I was facing that I was stunned. (Read "A Lively Hope" on your EGW CD-ROM).   Heidi too was blessed and we read until breakfast. 

The day passes much to quickly, filled with get acquainted chats with church members, an uplifting church service, a hike in nature, and what I was most hungry for: deep Bible conversations with people who understand it, understand the times we are living in, and understand my purpose in such conversations. All of my friends seem to be on fire about the sanctuary message they heard from Pastor Baute last weekend.  I am envious, but drink in whatever blessings they are willing to share. 

Toward evening I sit in a chair in the foyer and studied the Bible with a friend.  We look at passages in the Psalms that speak about the sanctuary.  Passage after passage seem to be saying something profound to me.  As Jensen point out that Isaiah 2 is about the sanctuary I think of Psalm 46.  That takes us to Psalms 27, 23, 91, 61, and other passages that all seem to be saying that the sanctuary is the refuge for God's people during the time of trouble.  I am struck with the thought that the sanctuary is home for God's people.  Psalm 84, my favorite Psalm suddenly becomes far more meaningful.  It is then that I realize that I have found home.  Not OHC, not my friends, not the familiar floor of an unfamiliar building, not any of these, no.  I have found a home in the Sanctuary.  I wish to abide there all the time. 

Suddenly it all falls into place.  OHC is not my sanctuary.  It can not protect me and save, it can only point me to the true sanctuary.  The close fellowship of a canvassing program is a blessing, but only as it leads me to closer fellowship with Christ and a deeper earnestness to save souls.  I return home with a song of thankfulness in my heart for the blessing of Jesus. 

Maybe home isn't always where the magabooks are, or even where the people I care about most are, the ones I didn't see this weekend.  Maybe it is wherever Jesus is.  Right now that is the Most Holy Place.  By faith I can live there!  Oh to understand this better!  To take it in and make it a part of me.  To dwell in Him so closely that I am never moved away!  This is home. . . thanks for reminding me guys.