Little faces glowed in school-colored paints as we pulled up this morning. Football jerseys long forgotten by a generation past hung draped from much smaller boy child shoulders. Under those giant jerseys is room to grow into dreams, hopes, wishes. Even these children know that there is always a time that is coming. Across the lawn the upper-grade students wore excitement and enthusiasm as they arrived draped in the threads of school spirit. Boundless energy struggles to stay in line before going into the building. Today’s is an extra loud “Praise the Lord!”, cheered out as chorus from all the lined up littles. It rings out across the neighborhood and an aching smile stretches across my face. Homesickness. My heart is heaven sick and joy heavy.
Homecoming. Coming home.
Musings of home have snatched my attention much lately. Is it because a piece of heaven close and near kicks, elbows, squirms inside my womb? A swelling reminder that this, all of this, is so extraordinarily temporary?
Toddler head buried in my shoulder in a game of kisses while I carry him up the steps presses into my neck, and there it is. It perfumes the golden curls knotted at his hairline. Home.
Biggest brother pencil scratches prick my ears as the spelling words are written just one more time during breakfast, and there, in the hand that still embodies childhood, I catch a glimpse. Again. Home.
My favorite season awakens me today with glorious radiance. Fog nestles in among the wheel line in the pasture by the river. A bevy of quail rush across the road. Breath rises in suspended puffs from the cattle. Gold and orange flicker in a barely breeze, plopped into a trail of color that should never end. But Harvest is upon us. Endings and beginnings. Making room for the the dark to settle, for the shadows to fall long, for hearts to turn homeward.
Time is coming. A season for everything. Home IS coming.
“A time is coming” says the Messiah to the woman. Yes. It is. The time on God’s clock doesn’t go, it comes!
Doesn’t that just make a soul swirl in sweet gratitude? Time is coming! Home is coming.
October blue blares and the turning leaves trumpet in crisp staccato.
Will Heaven–my forever home–sound like autumn looks?
Will it smell of the perfume of my son’s curls?
Will it be beautiful like my son’s hand around a pencil?
Will it be warm like my husband’s eyes?
Baby shifts in the womb while my mind wades in the beautiful waters of home thoughts. The time is coming. Coming very soon. The splendor of the Father’s gifts will come from womb-bound darkness into fractured light and in this little soul, just as in all of ours, there will ever be a longing for home. Home, where the light is whole because He is and He makes us so.
Jesus reminds, as only he can, “ ‘Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.’ ” (John 4:21) The forever place will displace our here. Thank you, LORD! What a future to behold! There is coming an unspeakably marvelous always that transcends and so must also transform all our ways.
And so I will. I will worship my savior on this painfully beautiful morning. I will worship in the holy places. I will worship in my going out and my coming in. I will worship in my rising and lying down again. I will worship when my hands grow weary in the work of life. I will worship in the ugly. I will worship in the placid. I will worship in the storm.
I will worship in my broken because He is wholly holy.
Because in the worship, here is gone and home is real.
Because He IS, I will.
Each breath ticks the clock toward a coming.
A home coming.