Time capsules—we've all seen these eclectic collections stuffed into cornerstones of new buildings in an attempt to give future generations a cultural snapshot of a previous era.
My wife and I discovered that we actually own a time capsule—our pop-up camper, also known as a tent trailer. For the uninitiated, it's a metal box with a roof that cranks up, revealing canvas sides and a set of beds on each end. It's like a tent—only much nicer.
But more than a decade ago, we upgraded to a hard side trailer known as a fifth wheel. It's nicer yet. Thus, for nearly fifteen years, the tent trailer has convalesced behind our garage in what used to be our garden—now a retirement property for aging campers.
This weekend, we got it out, cranked it up, and discovered it was exactly how we'd left it. Yet oddly enough, it appeared to us both like a time capsule of sorts.
Sifting through the contents, we confirmed that sheets and blankets, zipped up in protective plastic cases, were free of mice or insect infiltration. Unopened packages of paper plates, cups, and plastic eating utensils were nicely stacked in one cabinet. In another, a fire starter—affectionately known in our family as a "clicker"—that still sparked to life with flame.
Yet there were also signs of decay. The latches that hold down the collapsible roof have grown stiff. The decals on the sides continue to fade with years of exposure to the sun. And looking underneath, there's the ominous presence of rust.
Ol' Bessie cleaned up nicely, but she's showing signs of age. Like you—and me.
Which takes me to 2 Corinthians 5:1. "Our bodies are like tents that we live in here on earth. But when these tents are destroyed, we know that God will give each of us a place to live. These homes will not be buildings that someone has made, but they are in heaven and will last forever."
Aren't you glad there's a “forever?”