Read

2 Corinthians 5:1 “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.”

Think

Have you ever been somewhere that felt almost right—but not quite? Like staying at a hotel where the bed is comfortable, but not your bed. Or eating a meal that tastes good, but still leaves you missing your mom’s cooking. Everything’s fine, even enjoyable, but something is just… off. That’s what homesickness feels like. A longing for a place that feels familiar, settled, safe.

Paul taps into that ache in 2 Corinthians 5 when he compares our earthly lives to tents. Temporary structures. They serve a purpose, but they’re not built to last. A tent is good for a weekend camping trip, but if someone told you to live in one for the rest of your life, you’d feel the weight of that limitation quickly. They’re drafty. They wear out. They flap in the wind. They don’t offer permanence. And Paul is saying: that’s what this life is like. Beautiful, yes. Meaningful, yes. But ultimately temporary.

The world tries to tell you this is home. That if you just work harder, upgrade more, achieve something greater, you’ll find peace and satisfaction. But no matter how nice your “tent” becomes, it still doesn’t fully satisfy. And the older you get, the more you see it. Things fade. Circumstances shift. Even the best moments are laced with a kind of longing. A whisper that says, “There has to be more.”

And there is.

Paul says that when this earthly tent is destroyed—and let’s be honest, it will be—there’s something waiting that’s far more permanent. An eternal house. A home not built by human hands. Built by God. Secure, lasting, perfect. Not a metaphor. Not a spiritual idea. A real place. With foundations. With rooms. With presence. Heaven isn’t the reward for a life well-managed. It’s the home your heart has been homesick for all along.

And that changes how we live today.

It gives us endurance. When life gets hard—and it will—we remember that suffering is not the end of the story. This isn’t all there is. You can feel that truth deep in your bones. Because when you know you’re not home yet, you don’t panic when things aren’t perfect. You don’t expect your tent to protect you from every storm. You know your security comes from something greater.

It gives us freedom. If this life is temporary, we can stop clinging to things that won’t last. Our identity isn’t tied to possessions, achievements, or appearances. You don’t have to prove yourself endlessly. You can let go of the comparison game. You can live with open hands instead of white-knuckled control. When your foundation is in eternity, the ups and downs of life don’t get to define you.

It gives us focus. You start thinking about what really matters. People. Purpose. Eternity. Suddenly, the small irritations of life shrink in the light of a bigger story. You begin to make decisions not just for convenience or comfort, but for kingdom impact. You see time as a gift. You treat others with grace. You don’t have to scramble to find meaning—because you’re already part of God’s greater plan.

It gives us peace. There’s something incredibly comforting about knowing that heaven isn’t just a far-off hope—it’s a promised reality. Your life is moving toward something better, not by accident, but by design. And you’re not alone on the journey. God isn’t waiting at the finish line. He’s walking with you through every step. The One who builds your eternal home is the same One holding your hand through the temporary.

So how do we live when we know we’re not home yet? We live ready. We live grateful. We live with one eye on heaven—not to escape responsibility, but to carry it with perspective. We love deeply. We serve joyfully. We forgive quickly. Because we know this isn’t forever, and what we do now echoes into eternity.

If your life feels unsettled right now—if you’re tired, if you’re searching, if you feel like you don’t quite fit—that doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. It means something is right. That ache? That discontent? That low-grade homesickness? It’s not a problem to fix. It’s a signpost. A holy reminder that you were made for more.

And one day, you’ll wake up not in a tent, but in a house. Not as a visitor, but as a resident. Not in a temporary place, but in the home God built just for you. No more searching. No more wandering. Just wholeness, joy, and peace in the presence of the One who created you, redeemed you, and welcomed you home.

You’re not home yet—but you’re on your way.

Apply

Take inventory of your heart today. Where have you been trying to make the tent feel permanent? Ask God to help you hold temporary things loosely and eternal things tightly. Take one step—big or small—that reflects that shift. Maybe it’s reaching out to someone, letting go of a grudge, or reprioritizing your time.

Pray

Father, thank you for the promise of a permanent home. Help me live like someone who belongs to another country. When I feel the ache, remind me that it’s pointing me toward you. Give me peace in the present and hope for the future. I trust you with both. In Jesus’ name. Amen.