I rarely travel overseas and when I do, I fret over too many things. What if the flight is cancelled, what if the weather turns awful, and the biggest one of all: What if the invisible beings that keep the plane up in the sky decide to take a coffee break, and we end up in the drink?

All these niggling worries eventually do get resolved. In fact, I’ve never had to face a canceled flight, and although we did have unexpected snow in England last year, it was rather lovely and did not impair our movements much. As for the magical beings, they have been very reliable.

But there is one thing that always strikes me on an overseas trip. It is the instant when I return to Decatur, Georgia, and see my house again. On this last visit, we were only gone a week, and yet the moment I spotted our house, I grew tearful from joy. I couldn’t wait to climb from the car and marvel over the changes in the yard: The fig tree is sparking little frills of green. The blueberry bushes are abuzz with flowers. But most wonderful of all, our house is still standing. It did not somehow disappear while we were away.

I open the door and come in and look around as if seeing the place for the first time. The light seems more generous and the trees outside larger and greener. Does anything taste as good as the simplest glass of red wine when you drink it by your very own fireplace? Does anything look as graceful as the tiny wildflower that shyly blooms in your own yard?

I have been away only a week and yet I have dearly missed the humble rituals of my simple life. Yes, the big English breakfast was delightful, but that down-home portion of oatmeal, spooned into a bowl I made with my own hands, has an especially fine flavor. Even though I often grumble about getting up at six a.m. to get ready for my library job, this morning I was delighted when I heard the first pre-dawn bird sounds outside our window. These are familiar birds, and I didn’t realize how much I loved them until they were an ocean away.

People who go off to the hospital, thinking it will be for a day or two, sometimes end up staying a few weeks. They can attest to how much they miss their home, their dog, their slippers, their own cup in their very own kitchen.

The longing for home is so deeply imbedded in each of us, and I can’t help but think God has put that desire in our hearts because he knows where our true home is. The longing we now feel for our usual bed, our well-worn slippers, and the standard rituals of ordinary life hints at the deeper wish for another home. It is Heaven, the place that we will arrive at one day – hopefully – and never have to leave again.

Maybe Hell would be an endless feeling of having missed out on our true home. Maybe it would be an eternal homesickness, a gnawing realization that the pillows will never feel just right and the birdsong will always be a bit off tune. Hell would be the shattering sense that we took a long journey but never made it back home again. We never pulled up in front of the house, jumped from the car, and dashed to the front door, our hands trembling as we slid the key into the lock. Hell would be the knowledge that we will never see the one who stands at the other side of the door, so patiently and eagerly waiting to greet us. It would be the agonizing absence of home.