This World Is Not Our Home

I do not even know how to write this.

I keep staring at my phone like somehow the news is going to change. Like maybe I misunderstood. Like maybe if I read the message again, it will say something different.

But it does not.

Someone I loved is gone.

I am not going to share his name here. Some people and some stories are too sacred to lay out fully for the world. But I can say this: he was family to me. Not by blood, but by love. By showing up. By being there. By becoming part of the holidays, the hard days, the ordinary days, and the moments that no one else even knew about.

He was in my life for twelve years.

Twelve years of friendship. Twelve years of faith. Twelve years of checking in. Twelve years of being there in ways that still make me cry when I think about them.

He helped me through seasons I do not even have the strength to write about fully right now. Hunger. Homelessness. Abuse. Fear. Starting over. Needing help. Needing safety. Needing someone to remind me that I was not alone.

And he did.

More than once.

And I hope he knew that I tried to do the same for him.

He did not have a lot of family around him, so I made sure he had us. If there was a holiday, he was included. If there was a celebration, he was part of it. If there was a sermon he was working on, I helped him write it. If there was scripture to send, we sent it.

That was one of our things.

Daily scriptures.

A simple rhythm between two people who believed God was still speaking, still near, still able to carry us through this life.

Two days before I found out he was gone, I sent him one.

His reply was:

“This world is not our home.”

At the time, I read it and thought, yes. Amen. That is true.

Today, I read it with tears in my eyes.

Because now those are the last words I have from him.

“This world is not our home.”

I keep thinking about that. How sometimes words do not feel as heavy when they first arrive. They come in like a normal text message. Just another part of the day. And then life changes, and suddenly those same words become something you hold with both hands.

I do not know if he knew.

I do not know if his spirit was tired. I do not know if he felt closer to heaven than I realized. I do not know why that was the sentence that stayed.

But I know this: his last message to me was full of faith.

Not fear.
Not bitterness.
Not goodbye.

Faith.

“This world is not our home.”

And I am trying to hold onto that, even while my heart feels broken.

I am in Utah now. He was in Texas. And that distance hurts in a way I do not know how to explain. Grief already makes you feel helpless, but distance adds another layer. It makes you feel like you should be somewhere else. Like your body is in one place and your heart is standing in another.

I wish I could go back and hug him.

I wish I could hear his voice again.

I wish I could send one more scripture and see his name pop up on my phone.

But I cannot.

So I am left with what he gave me.

A friendship.
A covering.
A testimony.
A reminder.

This world is not our home.

I believe that. I really do.

But today, believing it does not mean I am not hurting.

Today, believing it means I can cry and still have hope. It means I can grieve and still trust God. It means I can miss him deeply and still believe that death does not get the final word.

Some people leave behind things. Photos. Voicemails. Old messages. Memories tucked into holidays and conversations and places.

He left me words.

“This world is not our home.”

And I think I will carry them for the rest of my life.

With grief and hope,
Just Catrina