This cube is not my home

Angelos move. A lot. I’m pretty sure it’s part of our DNA or genetic predisposition or whatever. As legend has it, my ancestors pioneered West with the Donner party (the Angelos gave up and stopped somewhere before the Cannibalistic Pass, as the story goes). I haven’t been able to substantiate the claim for myself, but you get the idea. I’ve lived in eleven houses, four dorms, and eight cities. At this point, I’m Tetris Master Level when it comes to fitting boxes in cars. I buy vehicles based on how well they’ll transport furniture, and “good at packing boxes” is one of the most desirable qualities I look for in men.

I’ve been at my new job for 2.5 months, and already had three different workspaces. At this rate, we’re looking at a different cubicle for every month of work. I’m not the only one: the company is consolidating onto two floors, so we’re all playing a lengthy game of Corporate Musical Chairs.

It wouldn’t be quite so disruptive, except the construction is going more quickly than planned (pretty sure that’s the first time since men stopped living in caves). I’ve had several coworkers who’ve come in for work only to discover that their desk is bare, and that all of their effects have been moved to a new (and often unknown) location. Some of the kitchen tables are missing from the breakroom, and rumor has it they’ve been spotted doubling as makeshift desks in an office somewhere. It’s been feeling a little rapture-esque, what with my peers disappearing unexpectedly.

I was barely at my desk for ten minutes together before lunch on Thursday. After training on a different floor for the majority of the morning, I returned to my cube right before lunch, only to spot this lovely note on my monitor:

cannedjello moving

Okay. So, first off: this is a pet peeve of mine. Have you ever gone to a local restaurant or something, and there’s a sign on the door that says “back in an hour,” or some such nonsense? Dear cryptic-message-writer, we don’t know when you wrote this note. We can’t smell the post-it and tell if it’s “still fresh.” Is this 5 minutes from 10:00 am? or 5 minutes from 11:54 am? I’m at a loss.

Thankfully, I’d already seen the fates of my friends, and been living out of boxes for several days. All I had to do was find my new destination (consequentially, only a mere couple yards away). Since I’ll be moving again within a few days, I’m trying to do as much as I can without unpacking my hole puncher.

Friday morning was even more shocking: while my belongings were still safely where I’d left them the night before, all the cubicles surrounding my office had been removed during the night. A lone printer remained (a printer, it turns out, that was now only good for scanning, since its network cables had been cut during the cube-removal-madness).

Have you ever seen an old office space without its workstations? It’s a similar experience to taking all the seat cushions off of an old couch: very insightful, and a little bit repulsive. From what I hear, the creative department found a lot of floor-almonds where their desks used to be. Our space was a bit more diverse—with old candy, post-its, and a dangerous number of thumbtacks littering the ground.

True to their character, studio seized the opportunity to make art out of madness. They went around and took pictures of the random remains, and plastered the images to the walls for all to see. I loved it—visiting an art gallery without even leaving my office.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Somewhere around ten moves ago, my church’s “theme song of the year” was This World is Not My Home. We sang it probably every Sunday, so you could say the lyrics stuck with me.

This world is not my home I’m just a-passin’ through
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door
And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore

It’s easy for me to become caught up in my life and what’s happening to me. Sometimes this world feels like a game of Monopoly, and I’m just pulling Chance cards, waiting to see how they turn out. “The printer’s network cables have been cut: move back two spaces.” “Post-it on monitor: move across hall.” But instead of making me reactionary, it should make me purposeful. C.S. Lewis put it best (as always) in the Screwtape Letters:

We want him to be in the maximum uncertainty, so that his mind will be filled with contradictory pictures of the future, every one of which arouses hope or fear. There is nothing like suspense and anxiety for barricading a human’s mind against the Enemy. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them.

Satan wants us preoccupied with worrying about what will happen to us. God wants us focusing on how we can be like Jesus, not on what our circumstances are like. We know we’ll end up on the 7th floor with our coworkers eventually, so it doesn’t really matter how many random cubicles or makeshift “desks” we occupy in the meantime.

Likewise, when this world is finished, the distractions will be removed, and our legacies will be on display for everyone to see. The trash we left behind and thought would go unnoticed? It won’t. Our unseen acts of light and shadow will suddenly be a focal point, so it makes much more sense to focus on what we do on this earth, rather than what’s being done to us by others.

I pray that God gives me a moving spirit. The mindset of a migrant, focusing on my final destination. I pray He keeps me traveling light, and processing life through the viewpoint of one who knows they don’t belong.

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