I wrote this blog on my phone a day ago. My blog got lost in translation so I am writing it again. I feel it will not be written as well. I feel that writing is at its best when it follows revelation and inspiration. My revelation today is not as fresh. But it is more fresh then it will be tomorrow. So here I go, I recreate.
‘The Tent is made of paper’ is a string of words I encountered from a fellow blogger who writes ‘wewantedtheirwings’. These six words led me to Margaret Atwood’s writing ‘The Tent’.
Just like Margaret Atwood, I have a tent. My tent is set up on the bottom slope of a moutain. My tent is made of paper. It is cracked. It is torn. The tent has holes. It has roughed the journey of a mountain climb. And to me, this is some sort of home.
In Genesis, man becomes a wanderer. Man is now a gypsy, a pilgrim, a nomad. And since then we have been looking for a place to call home.
Jamie Buckingham writes that “foxes have holes and birds have nests but the true man has no place to rest his head but the bosom of the Father.”
Our home is heaven, our tent is where we live now. It is a place from where we hear God and listen for when to pack up and move.
When I was living in France, the idea of the temporary home really ‘hit home’ for me. My time in France was temporary. I awaited seeing my family in Australia with great expectation. And just the same I enjoy my time here on earth as I wait expectantly to see my family in heaven.
Hebrews 11.13 talks about the heroes of faith who were “strangers and exiles on this earth.” They are/were pilgrims, wanderers in a strange place; desiring a better country, a heavenly home.
This is what we know may call ourselves, strangers and pilgrims who journey towards home.
Jon Foreman writes; “Oh, I’m a wandering soul, I’m still walking a line that leads me home. Alone, I’ll I know; still got mountains to climb on my own.”
And as I look over from my sloped tent of paper; I see a light that I journey towards.
Beth Noble explained to me that the time to move is now. She told me a vision where someone reaches the bottom of a mountain in the dead of winter. They want to stop and make camp. Its freezing, they’re cold and tired. But the person in this picture needs to keep moving. They need to move forward now before the frozen-over lake at the bottom of the mountain would melt. If the person did not move now, they would have to travel the long way, around the lake, though it may be spring. The light on the next mountain where the person is heading would take longer to reach.
So for now I have my tent. And I move it from season to season. I walk the line; I climb the mountain that I know I need to climb on my own. In the dead of winter, I dream. I walk across the frozen lake, pitching my tent by night. In the dead of winter, I see. I see life and beauty and spring and a guided path to the next pitstop; the light on the next mountain.