I was standing in front of the cake-decorating supplies, trying to decide which package of cupcake liners to buy.
Compared with other choices I’d been wrestling with that day, this one was pretty straightforward. Foil or paper. Multi-colored or white. Easy peasy.
Not too long ago, I read a book called The Cozy Minimalist Home. Written by Myquillyn Smith (a.k.a. “The Nester”), this gentle guide helps would-be decorators “quiet” their spaces and incorporate “more style” into their homes using “less stuff.”
I wouldn’t call myself a minimalist, cozy or otherwise. I have no plans to remove everything from my living room and then put back only what truly fits according to this decorating philosophy. But this lovely book has prompted me to look around my house with fresh eyes and honestly evaluate whether I like or need what I’m seeing.
On separate occasions during the last year or two, I’ve asked both my parents if they think about heaven much. It’s a reasonable question, I think, given their age and declining state of health.
My mom and dad are committed believers who aspired to serve God throughout their eight-plus decades of life. But when I asked them this question, they both said no.
At first, I was a bit taken aback by their decidedly un-Billy Graham-like answer. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. They’ve always taken a concrete, non-naval-gazing approach to life, and their faith and study of scripture has always tilted toward practical application, rather than lofty rhetoric.
My dad, specifically, is a mechanical engineer who spent his life solving problems and inventing solutions. Along the way, though, he also realized there are some things we just can’t know—including what heaven is going to be like.
“How can we know that?” he asked me once. “We’re going to be different. Not only are we going to be changed, but we’re going to be eternal. I don’t think anybody really understands eternity.”
In a way, he said, we’re like caterpillars contentedly munching away on tomato plants, with no possible way to imagine the transformation that’s about to happen to them.
“A caterpillar just can’t understand butterflies, even though it’s going to be one,” he explained. “The Bible says we don’t know what we will be like, but we will know what we will be when we see Him. I don’t think we can understand, so I don’t really dwell on it.”
My parents don’t talk about their eternal home much, or in ways that we might expect at this point in their lives. And that’s OK—God knows their hearts and understands how they are wired.
For me, though, the thought of them being in heaven—free from pain, fully restored in every way, reunited with loved ones and embraced by their perfect, loving heavenly Father—brings great comfort and peace.
Beyond that, I guess I’m a bit like my dad in that I’ve never dwelt much on heaven either. Increasingly, however, I do feel the tension between the now and the not yet, the fact that we are foreigners and exiles in this world, the reality that our true citizenship is in heaven. (1 Peter 2:11, Philippians 3:20)
Maybe it’s a maturing realization of a sense I’ve had most of my life—that feeling of not really belonging anywhere, at least not completely. The closest I come here on earth is at home, surrounded by the people who know and love me best. When I get to heaven, though, I wonder if my first impression will be similar to what the great Narnian horse Jewel experienced at the end of C.S. Lewis’s The Last Battle.
“I have come home at last!” he exclaims as he enters the new Narnia. “This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.”
I can imagine feeling that way—maybe you can too.
And then there’s the question of whether, once we arrive in heaven, we will want to ask God about all the trials and sufferings that we didn’t understand here on earth. Will we be able to see—finally—why things happened the way they did, or will we simply not care anymore?
I don’t know, of course. But the way Max Lucado addresses it in his book Traveling Light makes me look forward this future home of ours even more.
“One thing is certain,” he writes. “When the final storm comes and you are safe in your Father’s house, you won’t regret what he didn’t give. You’ll be stunned at what he did.”
♥ Lois
The closest I come to belonging here on earth is at home, surrounded by the people who know and love me best. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith on Fire, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.
I’ve been pondering what to write in this post for a while now—ever since I realized a certain milestone date was going to fall on the day of the week when I usually hit publish. And yet here I am, a few days before my 25th wedding anniversary, struggling to find a way to start.
On one hand, I love my husband and the life we’ve shared these last 2 ½ decades. On the other hand, I don’t write about marriage very often and trying to come up with a fitting tribute for this momentous occasion feels a bit overwhelming.
Should it be easier than this? Judging by other people’s gushy anniversary posts on social media, maybe so. Judging by the current season of life we’re in, perhaps not.
I vaguely remember my parents’ 25th anniversary. I was 12 at the time. We threw a party for them and invited people from church to join us.
As I recall, the party was organized mostly by my 15-year-old sister and included some sort of talent show put on by my siblings and me. Although I have no idea what “talent” I displayed, I do remember that we gave my parents a silver pitcher to commemorate the occasion.
Looking back, my mom and dad seemed so old to me. But they were barely into their 50s, just a few years older than I am now.
When they celebrated their 25th, they were thick in the middle of rearing seven children ranging in age from 7 to 23. Extended family lived far away, and life as we knew it primarily revolved around home, church and school.
In comparison, Randy and I find ourselves thick in the middle of the Sandwich Generation. We’re raising two teenage daughters while also managing the affairs of both my parents, who now reside in a nursing home that’s just a short drive from our home.
In recent months, conversations around our house have been dominated by one parental health crisis after another. It’s been a roller-coaster ride for sure, at times exhausting and stressful, and always with an undercurrent of sadness.
We don’t want to put other parts of our lives on hold, though, so we do our best to stay present for them. Which brings me back to my indecision about how write this blog post.
I could have attempted to list 25 things I’ve learned about marriage over the years, 25 special memories from the last 2 ½ decades or 25 things I love about Randy. Instead, what keeps coming to mind is something that happened just a few weeks ago.
My dad was in the hospital with pneumonia. He was admitted on a Wednesday evening, and I had been visiting several him times a day since then. His condition changed frequently, sometimes even during the same visit, so I never knew what to expect when I got to his room.
On Sunday afternoon, Randy came to the hospital with me. My dad wasn’t too coherent when we arrived, so we left the room for about 20 minutes while the staff tended to his needs. When we got back, he was alert and gobbling down his lunch.
He was weak and didn’t have much energy for talking, so after he finished eating, I tried to ascertain if he wanted us to stay and visit or leave so he could sleep. At one point, I jokingly suggested that Randy could entertain him by singing for him.
My dear husband, who sings at home and in the car but definitely not for an audience, laughed and pointed out that he wasn’t a good singer.
“That’s not what I heard,” my dad replied.
“Well, Dad, do you want me to sing for you?” I asked, hoping to spare Randy from a potentially awkward situation.
“No, both of you,” he answered with all the energy he could muster.
My dad doesn’t normally ask for much, but this response was especially unexpected. And of course, there was no way we could turn him down. When I asked what he wanted us to sing, he requested “O Holy Night”—a favorite that has “evoked emotion” in him in the past.
I didn’t trust myself to remember all the lyrics, so Randy found Lauren Daigle’s version on YouTube to serve as our accompaniment. I closed the door to my dad’s room, and we sat there on either side of his hospital bed and sang “O Holy Night” together.
Today, that scene is what comes to mind when I think of our 25 years together.
Randy hates hospitals, yet he was there with me that day. He doesn’t perform in public, but he didn’t miss a beat when my dad said he wanted us to sing for him. And when I forgot the words and was overcome with emotion myself, Randy carried the tune until the song was over.
It’s altogether possible that my dad doesn’t even remember this moment. I do, though, and I won’t soon forget it.
I don’t need a big party or a commemorative silver pitcher to remind me why I love Randy or why our marriage has made it this far. What happened in that hospital room is all the proof I need that the handsome young man I married 25 years ago is still the only one for me.
♥ Lois
I don’t need a big party or a commemorative silver pitcher to remind me why I love my husband or why our marriage has made it this far. Share on X
At one particularly low point last December, I stood outside my dad’s room in the rehab hospital and stifled back tears. An aide named Angie with a beautiful heart and lovely accent put her arms around my shoulders, prayed for me and told me I had to be strong.
At that point, I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t particularly want to be strong.
Forget lions and lambs. March is coming in like a polar bear here in my neck of the Midwest.
On Sunday, church was cancelled because of the snow. A day later—16 days until the official start of spring—the temperature app on my phone said it was 0 degrees outside.