Chapter 17: On Living in Someone Else’s Home
I had opportunity to speak to a stake Relief Society in California a few years ago and stayed in a home in the stake. It was a bit of an unusual circumstance. Terry and Shelly were living in a six thousand square-foot home that belonged to David and Liz who were serving a mission in South Africa. This home has two staircases. It is modern, roomy, family-friendly, and filled with things David and Liz love and worked hard to obtain. As a guest in this home, I stayed in David’s office, which turned it into a guest room. Even with all of David’s furniture there, there was still enough room to accommodate a queen-size bed.
I noticed David’s books in a bookcase along one wall, organized by subject. Above the bookcase were art and artifacts from David and Liz’s travels around the world. His seven-foot roll-top desk stood against the adjacent wall, while his rust-colored leather sofa sat grandly on the opposite side. His off-season clothes hung in the closet and four drawers of filing cabinets—two labeled “Church,” one labeled “financial,” and one “miscellaneous” served as quiet reminders that David was not there.
I helped prepare meals in David and Liz’s kitchen. I used their gas range, opened their refrigerator, and wiped off their granite countertops. I sat on their couches, walked on their floors of tile, hardwood, imported rug, and patterned carpet. I sat at their tables, used their bathroom, played their grand piano, sat on their porch, looked at their grow boxes, admired the landscaping, and I felt.
I felt what David and Liz were willing to sacrifice for eighteen months. I thought of them missing grandchildren’s births and birthdays, the camaraderie of their children and extended family who, I learned, lived very close by, and of their aging parents who will continue to age. I thought of them leaving their “normal” lives, their friends, their employment, their robust ward and stake.
I thought of the risk and vulnerability of allowing another family, a big family, to live in their home, of the inevitable wear and tear, as a minimum of the concerns. I thought about the home’s security system and wondered if they feel safe in their meager apartment in South Africa.
When I learned that David and Liz had already served as mission president in one of Africa’s poorest nations for three years, a few years previously, I felt even more deeply about their level of sacrifice and commitment. It seemed more akin to consecration. What more could they lay on the Lord’s altar? I felt to the point of tears.
I asked Shelly about her feelings about living in someone else’s home. Shelly said when David and Liz took them through the house just before they left, she felt the reminders of them would be overwhelmingly constant and strong. She said to them, “I will think of you—all day, every day.”
But Shelly knows life can lose poignancy with repetition. She said she hopes she never forgets whose home she is living in, that she will never think of this house as her house, even when she gives their address as her address, even when she invites guests, because in reality, they are David and Liz’s guests.
Then my thoughts took a turn to my own life and to my own home, my books, my art, my desk, my sofa, my closet filled with my clothes. I thought of my garden and my yard, on my street, in my city, state, and nation. I thought of this planet in this solar system, in this galaxy, in this universe. I thought that David and Liz must understand something I do not.
It is not my universe, my galaxy, my solar system. It is not my earth, nation, state, or city. It is not even my home, furnishings, clothes, or books. I may have stewardship, but ownership belongs to the Lord, He who created and oversees all: “Yea, all things which come of the earth… are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart…. And it pleaseth God that he hath given all these things unto man; for unto this end were they made to be used…. And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments” (D&C 59:18-21).
I realized I live in someone else’s home, a home filled with reminders of Him, a home filled with His love. I breathe His oxygen and drink His water. I use the body He created for me and which He bought with a price. I remembered what He asks in return: “that they do always remember him” (Moroni 5:2).
Deep gratitude filled my heart. I wanted to more fully keep His commandments and try better to always remember Him. It was then the Isaac Watts poem came to mind and I sang it along with the Tabernacle Choir in my mind ("My Shepherd Will Supply My Needs," based on Psalm 23):
My Shepherd will supply my need, Jehovah is His name,
In pastures fresh He makes me feed beside the living stream;
He brings my wandering spirit back when I forsake His way,
And leads me for His mercy's sake in paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death His presence is my stay,
One word of His supporting grace drives all my fears away;
His hand in sight of all my foes doth still my table spread,
My cup with blessings overflows, His oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days;
Oh, may Thy house be my abode and all my work be praise;
There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come;
No more a stranger nor a guest, but like a child at home.
In His home, I am not a stranger; I am not a guest; I am like His child at home.
I noticed David’s books in a bookcase along one wall, organized by subject. Above the bookcase were art and artifacts from David and Liz’s travels around the world. His seven-foot roll-top desk stood against the adjacent wall, while his rust-colored leather sofa sat grandly on the opposite side. His off-season clothes hung in the closet and four drawers of filing cabinets—two labeled “Church,” one labeled “financial,” and one “miscellaneous” served as quiet reminders that David was not there.
I helped prepare meals in David and Liz’s kitchen. I used their gas range, opened their refrigerator, and wiped off their granite countertops. I sat on their couches, walked on their floors of tile, hardwood, imported rug, and patterned carpet. I sat at their tables, used their bathroom, played their grand piano, sat on their porch, looked at their grow boxes, admired the landscaping, and I felt.
I felt what David and Liz were willing to sacrifice for eighteen months. I thought of them missing grandchildren’s births and birthdays, the camaraderie of their children and extended family who, I learned, lived very close by, and of their aging parents who will continue to age. I thought of them leaving their “normal” lives, their friends, their employment, their robust ward and stake.
I thought of the risk and vulnerability of allowing another family, a big family, to live in their home, of the inevitable wear and tear, as a minimum of the concerns. I thought about the home’s security system and wondered if they feel safe in their meager apartment in South Africa.
When I learned that David and Liz had already served as mission president in one of Africa’s poorest nations for three years, a few years previously, I felt even more deeply about their level of sacrifice and commitment. It seemed more akin to consecration. What more could they lay on the Lord’s altar? I felt to the point of tears.
I asked Shelly about her feelings about living in someone else’s home. Shelly said when David and Liz took them through the house just before they left, she felt the reminders of them would be overwhelmingly constant and strong. She said to them, “I will think of you—all day, every day.”
But Shelly knows life can lose poignancy with repetition. She said she hopes she never forgets whose home she is living in, that she will never think of this house as her house, even when she gives their address as her address, even when she invites guests, because in reality, they are David and Liz’s guests.
Then my thoughts took a turn to my own life and to my own home, my books, my art, my desk, my sofa, my closet filled with my clothes. I thought of my garden and my yard, on my street, in my city, state, and nation. I thought of this planet in this solar system, in this galaxy, in this universe. I thought that David and Liz must understand something I do not.
It is not my universe, my galaxy, my solar system. It is not my earth, nation, state, or city. It is not even my home, furnishings, clothes, or books. I may have stewardship, but ownership belongs to the Lord, He who created and oversees all: “Yea, all things which come of the earth… are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart…. And it pleaseth God that he hath given all these things unto man; for unto this end were they made to be used…. And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments” (D&C 59:18-21).
I realized I live in someone else’s home, a home filled with reminders of Him, a home filled with His love. I breathe His oxygen and drink His water. I use the body He created for me and which He bought with a price. I remembered what He asks in return: “that they do always remember him” (Moroni 5:2).
Deep gratitude filled my heart. I wanted to more fully keep His commandments and try better to always remember Him. It was then the Isaac Watts poem came to mind and I sang it along with the Tabernacle Choir in my mind ("My Shepherd Will Supply My Needs," based on Psalm 23):
My Shepherd will supply my need, Jehovah is His name,
In pastures fresh He makes me feed beside the living stream;
He brings my wandering spirit back when I forsake His way,
And leads me for His mercy's sake in paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death His presence is my stay,
One word of His supporting grace drives all my fears away;
His hand in sight of all my foes doth still my table spread,
My cup with blessings overflows, His oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days;
Oh, may Thy house be my abode and all my work be praise;
There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come;
No more a stranger nor a guest, but like a child at home.
In His home, I am not a stranger; I am not a guest; I am like His child at home.
(c) Marilynne Todd Linford, 2018
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