“The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”
This phrase is on repeat in my head as I lay it down uncomfortably on a seat in my parents’ minivan, yet another night. This is the strangest season of my life so far. How have I gotten so sick that I have become homeless?
My chest heaves in pain as I struggle to breathe. My head aches continually. Rooms spin. Words don’t come out. My body refuses to move. I feel as if I have become allergic to the whole world. I sometimes even question the reality of this, and yet it is my life—morning, noon, and night.
I long to be in a home again, to have some sense of routine and normalcy. I am a wife, and I am a mom. How can I be those things when I cannot even care for myself? This is the hardest part of it all. My husband works incessantly as a breadwinner and a keep-everyone-alive-er. My 5-year-old daughter has no sense of what might happen in a day and comes to visit her mother in a minivan—her mother who used to care for her every minute of the day and night. My 11-month-old son meets new milestones and makes responsive gestures that I only see through video. In what world is this normal?
And a scribe came up and said to him, “Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”— Matthew 8:19-20
Would I prefer a life of comfort over knowing my Savior more? Sadly, I probably would. I’m grateful that I have not been given the choice.
Jesus, I will follow you wherever you go, when you enlarge my heart (see Psalm 119:32).