We hadn’t been home in over 240 days — and it’s not because we were traveling the world.

It was a storm, the kind that is utterly predictable in Oklahoma. And yet, somehow, this storm brought on damage that we never saw coming. We were traveling the beaches of Florida, peacefully asleep in a hotel, when a storm back home dropped a massive tree on top of our house. When we returned home, one day after the storm hit, we saw our cozy corner of the neighborhood had been turned into a hub filled with generators, chainsaws, and more tree debris than a photo could possibly convey. I pushed back the tears welling in my eyes as my neighbor embraced me. How could wind move such a massively anchored tree? And how would we even begin to clean this up?

In the midst of all the chaos, a dear friend sent me a prayer in a voice recording. Sweaty, after an afternoon of anger-racking tiny branches, I let her voice play into my earbuds while I wandered the backyard. God, you care about the spaces we occupy, she prayed. As the recording played those words, I wondered if they were true. Does our actual physical context matter to God? Does our home really matter to Him? This grief was nothing compared to other parts of my story, yet I found myself wondering if God really cared about this seemingly “lesser” loss. The next few weeks became characterized by searching for that one pair of shorts, the kitchen spatula we accidentally packed away, and stories in scripture that would answer my burning question:

God, do you really care about the spaces we occupy?

The Old Testament is filled with stories of displaced people. Whether it’s deserts, foreign lands, or temporary shelters, God uses the physical location of His people to remind them of His promises. The story of Joseph is a prime example. Sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph is uprooted to a foreign land and imprisoned. He occupies the bottom of a well and the cold floor of a prison, but eventually, God intervenes in a way that lands him at the right hand to Pharaoh, ultimately bringing to fruition a plan that would restore his family, save a nation, and lead God’s people out of slavery. A stunning moment comes after his father Jacob dies. His brothers realize that the death of their father may pave the way for Joseph to seek revenge on them for having wrecked his life, but Joseph is moved by love for his brothers. With a spirit of forgiveness (that should give us serious pause), Joseph says: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” (Genesis 50:20 NIV). Joseph saw that God had been with him at each marker on the timeline of his life, and with the helpfulness of hindsight, Joseph’s faith had anchored him.

The evolution of Joseph’s circumstances gives me whiplash, but reading it through the lens of physical spaces awakens me to a sense of God’s provision for the long term. When I catalog all the places that Joseph finds himself — the bottom of the well, a prison floor, Pharaoh’s palace — I see the through line of not only God’s bigger story of redemption but also God’s presence with Joseph in every space he occupied. Joseph was never alone or forgotten; he was never not seen by God.

From the window of our rented downtown apartment, I prayed I could apply a bit of Joseph’s perspective to my circumstances. The dwelling place of our temporary rental mattered as much as my storm-torn house, because . . . even there, God was meeting with me. My folding chair in the window had become a backdrop to the story God was writing in my heart about place, community, identity, and home. I realized that the storm and this unexpected detour was never about me going back home, but about God making His home in me, awakening me to His work wherever I happen to live.

In Revelation 21:3, we see a beautiful glimpse of God’s ultimate plan for creation when John hears a loud voice declaring, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.” In the end, God will make His home with us forever. Heaven will come to earth and God himself will occupy this space. There won’t be a foreign context anymore because He will restore the order and safety of the Garden. Right now, I am remembering this hope as I unpack boxes in my freshly restored home. Indeed, God cares about the spaces we occupy because He occupies them, too.

Lord, come and make Your home in us — amen.

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