Once a year, Mary and I retrieve a couple of plastic tubs from our basement, both loaded with camping gear. We also pull out our tent, our cots, and our five-gallon water container.
Then we load everything—along with meals and snacks—and head to a campsite that Chrissy, our family organizer, has reserved for us. The same process unfolds at the other three households across the Denver metro area. Yes, all 19 of us… and at least one dog.
Three days and two nights is about our limit. We love the unexpected delight each new location provides, but there’s a point where comfort, convenience, and cleanliness begin to matter. Every year the memories mount and expand. Our kids and grandkids surprise us, delight us, and inspire us. We treasure this time together. And we also love going home.
A tent is temporary. It’s meant for a short season—less than 1% of my entire year. Memorable. Important. Character-forming. Temporary.
“For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” (2 Corinthians 5:1, ESV)
Only recently did the cosmic comparison come into focus, sharpened as I stood by my brother while he folded up his tent and headed home. Forever.
A tent. Our bodies.
A short-term assignment. A significant one.
Our bodies are like the tubs that hold what we need to survive for a while, but only for a while—living in the space God has allotted to us for this season of camping. Then, as the tent sags and leans, as weather and time take their toll, we pack up. Sometimes reluctantly. Sometimes eagerly. Sometimes sooner than we expect.
Then we head home.
With full hearts. But ready.
A tent was never designed to last forever. It has a shelf life. So we savor and steward the moments—planned and unplanned. Gratitude lights our way home, and anticipation carries us forward.
Home.
Tents—canvas or nylon, tiny or large—are all temporary. Wonderful, but only a fraction of the whole.
While we camp, God prepares. For us. For others.
No more dirt or rain or outhouses—only home. Fully equipped. Fully prepared.
Of course, we should care well for our tents, keeping them as sturdy and comfortable as possible. But they will never be permanent. Not for anyone.
Today, a tent.
Someday, home.
Perspective. Context. Calibration.
Plan accordingly.
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