Digging through my son’s linen closet in his bathroom, I just wanted to find a wash cloth. 

There were towels and a couple of rolls of toilet paper. For a single, recent college grad the contents made sense. But for a mother on a road trip who just wanted to wash her face, it did not.

Of course I could wash my face without it. It is just what I am accustomed to in the comfort of my own home.

My young, strong sons had carried in the absurdly heavy bags I’d packed for my three-day stay. It was an embarrassingly large number of supplies for such a brief visit.

Every time I travel it is a days-long, mental debate about what goes and what stays. 

Do I really need another t-shirt crammed in the bag?

What about this fourth pair of shoes?

Will there be a blow dryer I can use? And even if there is, won’t I still want mine any way?

Did I pack the watch and the phone charger?

I have to bring my pillow.

What I think I must have to make myself comfortable away from home is amazing. It makes me uncomfortable to write it, but I like to be comfortable.

The second day in, I texted my hubby and told him maybe I’m getting too old, but I’m spoiled by my life at our home together. 

Every moment with my grown children, who live three full states away to the East, is precious. What I consider the difficulties of traveling are well worth the effort. I am willing to give up little luxuries to be present with them, to enjoy their presence, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy to go back to my home.

I wonder somehow if I have let comfort eclipse the essential.

Making my home in this temporal spot is a dangerous vocation I think. Even the premise that I have any or enough control to keep discomfort at bay, to keep myself comfortable at all costs is a skewed perspective that desperately needs realignment.

What is even a more frightening thought: what this world offers is not real comfort. These things I think I have to pack do not ultimately help me. These are the things that lull us away, make the dangerous road seem less so. Our ease, our way of life creates this fog through which we are unable to clearly discern any warnings.

Jesus told his disciples that worrying about creature comforts was pointless in Matthew 6:

“And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’”

Jesus told an eager, teacher of the law and would-be disciple in Matthew 8 that he himself had no place to lay his head. Jesus was not offering any worldly comforts while following him and his simple clarification rectified the short-sighted declaration by the enamored listener.

Jesus wasn’t packing his pillow.

Following his lead does not lead to an inviting home on a temporal plane. It is a battle for the heart and mind against the quiet of fleeting, shallow fulfillment.

It is easy to be a half-hearted creature trying to keep discomfort at bay—far easier than it is to take up the cross of our Savior and follow the path he’s cut through a world warring for our eternity.

Comfort is not the end goal.

It was not promised then or now, except in the person and presence of God.

God wants us—our hearts, our minds, our very souls. 

And if the devil can convolute and distort, he most certainly will and does. 

There is a wonderful feeling when your body is tired and ready for rest. That moment when your mind quits fidgeting and you are ready to give yourself over to sleep is so peaceful and glorious. I fear that feeling is often replicated by the evil one. If he can convince us some thing in this life will gently lull us to sleep, gently put us at ease, he’s accomplished his purpose.

Every believer has a winding and often rocky road that may even lead through the wilderness on occasion. 

In my own experience, I can look back on the easy and the hard and it is painfully clear that the times of greatest learning, greatest leaning on the Lord are not the moments of worldly comfort and rest. 

And yet, the presence of the Comforter was all I needed.

He is our home, even in the wilderness. 

Jesus promised the world would be full of tribulation, but He has overcome the world.

Jesus said He had to go away, so He could send the Comforter.

It is pointless to worry about creature comforts because God provides what we need and He knows our needs better than we do. And it is okay to have tribulation in the world, because He has overcome the world. And when we need comfort—ultimate comfort—the God of all comfort and compassion is eager to provide.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4