"Because you have made the Lord your dwelling place—the Most High, who is my refuge—no evil shall be allowed to befall you, no plague come near your tent." – Psalm 91:9-10

Grief unsettles everything. It changes the landscape of life so drastically that sometimes I find myself longing for a fresh start—somewhere new, untouched by sorrow. I imagine a home by the ocean, a different city, a place where the memories wouldn’t press in so hard. Maybe the sound of the waves would drown out the echoes of loss. Maybe a new view would give me a new perspective.

But would starting all over somewhere new subside this restlessness? Would a change of scenery bring the peace I’m longing for?  I guess for some, this is one answer. Sometimes a fresh start is needed, a change of place to create space for healing.

But I know that for me, no matter where I go, grief will follow. The emptiness I feel in this house would be just as present in another. The longing wouldn’t be left at the doorstep of a new home, because it isn’t tied to a location—it’s tied to what’s missing.

In Exodus we read of the Israelites in the wilderness, always moving, never truly settling. Each morning, they woke uncertain of whether they’d be staying or packing up again. Spurgeon said, “They scarcely had time to rest a little before they heard the sound of ‘Away! this is not your rest; you must still be onward journeying towards Canaan! Even wells and palm trees could not detain them. Every time they might have grown comfortable, the trumpet sounded, and they were called to move again. And yet, they had an abiding home in their God.”  And yet, Moses declared, “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place throughout all generations.” (Psalm 90:1). Though their tents shifted, God remained constant.

We, too, are wanderers in this life. Loss reminds us of that. Everything here is temporary—our homes, our health, even our relationships. Some are taken from us far sooner than we ever imagined. But Spurgeon points us to the truth that anchors us: "My unmoving mansion of rest is my blessed Lord... I am a pilgrim in the world, but at home in my God. In the earth I wander, but in God I dwell in a quiet habitation."

This truth doesn’t erase grief, but it does steady me. My longing for home—for security, for a place where everything feels right—is ultimately a longing for Him. I see it even in the moments of heartache. The same triggers in this place that break me also comfort me. The things that remind me of my son—his laughter in a video, his favorite snack in the pantry, the sound of his name—sting, but they also tether me to love. And I find, strangely, that in the midst of my wandering, I am not lost. Because God is my dwelling place.

If you, too, find yourself longing to run and escape your grief—searching for something, anything, that might ease the ache—perhaps the answer is not in running, but in resting. Perhaps this longing we feel is meant to remind us that nothing here can truly satisfy.

C.S. Lewis wrote, "If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world." Maybe that’s why this ache won’t settle. Maybe it’s meant to keep pointing me Home.

So, Lord, let me see that no earthly home will bring the full peace I seek. Let me rest in You, my dwelling place—now and forevermore.