We’re Not Home Yet
I don't know if the place being prepared for me is a mansion or a humble abode. I don't know if there will be carpet or hardwood floors? Will my home be snuggled cozy under the shade of beautiful Redwoods or White Oaks or will it be opened up to the light of His glory?
I don't think there will be any doors in heaven. Doors are to keep people out but in heaven all are welcome, everywhere, all the time. No stranger will ever come to your door for there will be no strangers in heaven. We will live in the land of promise, a land of plenty. There will be no dirt on the floor. There will be no weeds in the garden. Heaven is ready for those who are called the "sons and daughters of God." It is prepared.
I remember my first years away from home. I traveled 500 miles away to attend a Christian boarding school. I packed all my things away in a small dormitory room and was immediately overcome with the nausea of homesickness. That first semester seemed to drag on forever. But finally, we were released for Christmas break and I threw my things in my '67 Chevy Impala and headed homeward through a snow storm that couldn't slow me.
Hours and hours later I turned off Interstate '79 onto Cochranton road and lumbered up through some of the most beautiful farm country in all of northwestern Pennsylvania. When I drove through a cluster of three or four farms in a community called Abbottville I knew I was getting close. Cornfields full of tall stalks waved their dried tassels at me. I turned into a bend in the road that led me towards Wilson's Chutes and I felt the excitement rising as I crossed French Creek and the wheels of my old car spun beneath me as I climbed one more snowy hill.
Route 322 takes me right o the door of my home. The sun had nearly set and the evening shadows were overtaking the snowy pastures. As I pulled into the driveway, a light shone on the front porch. I got out of my car and trudged through the snow toward the front door. My mother's face filled the window. She bound to the door and enveloped me with a great hug. The house was warm. I smelled cookies baking in the kitchen. My father stood to greet me, "Welcome home, son." It was so good to be home.
I don't know about you but as a wayfaring stranger in this land of wandering pilgrims, sometimes, I just want to go home. Jesus has prepared a place. He is waiting patiently for our arrival. The light is on.