My Eternal Home

"My eternal home, to which I shall one day return,

My Father in Heaven welcomes me."

I think it was sometime two years ago that I cried like that for the first time in my life.

Nothing particularly troubling had happened. So what was it that made me feel such overwhelming sorrow?

One Friday, during a worship service, I sang a hymn called My Eternal Home. My faith was especially fervent at the time, and as usual, I immersed myself in the lyrics as I offered my praise to God.

It was an ordinary day, no different from any other. Yet the moment I sang those words, my heart felt as though it were being torn apart, and I began to sob uncontrollably.

Back then, I spent a great deal of time wrestling with questions of faith.

How should I live? What kind of life did God want me to lead? Was I living in a way that pleased Him?

Every worship service was a source of immense joy, and His Word tasted as sweet as honey. I never ceased praying. Each day was another encounter with God, so falling asleep at night and opening my eyes in the morning brought me equal happiness.

Of course, this does not mean that I lived a particularly devout life in the eyes of others.

I was still a sinner, still terribly immature. I entertained all sorts of wicked thoughts and failed to love the people around me.

But one thing was certain.

Back then, I truly loved God.

Yet perhaps His silence became too heavy a shackle for me to bear.

I eventually forgot the Lord.

Where did the person who had once been so passionate about His Word disappear to? Why did I begin to hesitate before praying?

Little by little, the love I had for the Lord shrank until it became almost impossible to see. I even forgot that I had a home to return to, that somewhere there was a homeland waiting for me.

Perhaps that was why getting out of bed each morning became so painful.

At the time, I was struggling with many things in my personal life. From self-hatred to relationships and academic pressure, there seemed to be nothing that did not cause me pain.

My relationships with others had become poisonous, and the burden of my studies only tightened its grip around me.

The one thing that kept me anchored to everyday life was my faith.

Every day, I would pray, "Lord, I am struggling with this problem."

I often fell asleep meditating on the lyrics of the hymns I had sung during worship. Without even that small comfort, I felt incapable of doing anything at all.

And yet, despite all those prayers, nothing in my circumstances seemed to improve.

I was just as miserable as before, and I felt just as pathetic.

That was how I saw myself: a helpless, pitiful human being who could do nothing right.

Unable to accomplish anything on my own, I constantly prayed for help, confessing that I did not know what to do.

I had prayed so earnestly.

And yet nothing seemed to change.

Dust gradually accumulated on the cover of my blue Bible.

Sometimes, I would sing hymns with such desperation that tears streamed down my cheeks. Then, all of a sudden, I would wonder whether I even deserved to be doing this, and I would feel utterly ashamed of myself.

My voice was already hoarse, and both my cheeks were soaked with tears. Yet I stood there with an empty heart.

The air was unbearably hot, but my tears had already turned cold, leaving a strangely bland taste in my mouth.

I simply lowered my head.

To be honest, things are not much different now.

Reading Scripture still feels burdensome, and prayer often seems meaningless. I am too exhausted to concentrate on His Word.

Perhaps, after praying so desperately and seeing no change, I unconsciously gave up altogether.

I seem to have forgotten my homeland.

Because I could no longer see it, I allowed myself to forget.

But what frightens me even more is that, unlike back then, I am now so happy.

In the past, I was desperate enough to cling to God with everything I had. Now, however, I am so content with what I have been given that I have settled comfortably into my life.

My heart feels so full that there seems to be no room for anything else to enter.

Even when I listen to worship music, I no longer meditate on the lyrics. I simply enjoy the melody.

In my hands, a novel has replaced the Bible. From my lips come idle words spoken to myself rather than prayers.

The distance between the Lord and me has grown so vast that I can no longer measure it.

Where has the person gone who once poured so much effort into every line of prayer and every verse of praise?

Why am I slowly suffocating on this warm, comfortable sofa?

And yet, even here, I can see hope.

I can see my true home.

Lately, I have been thinking about many things.

Perhaps the Lord is trying to draw me closer to Him.

Perhaps He wants me to seek Him even when my life is already full.

Perhaps He has watched me with tears in His eyes because He loves me.

The Lord is a God of love, and I believe He will never abandon me.

Even when I turn my back on Him, I believe He will never forget my face.

I hold tightly to that truth.

And now, it is my turn to look toward my homeland.

It is time to dream once again of the home I have forgotten for so long, my eternal home to which I shall one day return.

Having forgotten my homeland while living in this world, I need prayer once more.

I must lift my head, just as I did during that Friday worship service two years ago.

I will return to my homeland, where my Father awaits me.