I Am Going Home

At that time I will gather you; at that time I will bring you home.

—Zephaniah 3:20

I happen to think Dorothy and Glinda the good witch were onto something. There is, in fact, no place like home.

No vacation beach or resort or chalet, regardless of the expense and glamour, can match the sweet comfort of home. As much as I enjoy an escape from ordinary life and need one from time to time, there’s nothing quite as sweet as coming home again.

The feel of my favorite coffee mug in hand. The warmth and snuggle of my king-sized down comforter. The smell of my favorite lavender candle and the feel of a fluffy bath towel. The mocking bird who sings to me while I sip my coffee on the deck in the early morning. The beloved faces of husband and children in the family portrait hanging near the front door.

Home.

I wonder if that’s the reason for my dad’s peace in the final weeks and days of his life. He knew he was going home.

There were tears too, of course. You can’t say goodbye to those you love without feeling a pang of loss. But his awareness of and confidence in what was to come trumped even his pain. I saw it in the ease of his smile, in the way he sought to comfort and reassure us, in his ability to sleep deeply and soundly, without anxiety or fear.

He knew. Life waited on the other side of death.

Perhaps this was most clearly seen on his final Saturday afternoon, three short days before he slipped away from us. We knew time was short. And so we circled his hospice-delivered bed to do church. My mom, his wife of forty-six years. My brother, sister-in-law, and nieces. My husband and children. We gathered around the man whose choosing Jesus at twenty-seven years old resulted in a family full of faith.

Over the previous forty-eight hours, he’d stopped responding to nearly all interactions. We made repeated efforts to engage him, talk with him. Still, he slept, lost to an in-between place. Although we prayed otherwise, I doubted he comprehended our Saturday afternoon church service.

One person shared the story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet, because everyone who knew Dad knew he spent a lifetime washing feet. Another read Psalm 112, words that perfectly describe this man: “They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the LORD” (v. 7). We shared communion. We prayed.

Holding his hand, kissing his forehead, we took turns telling him how he’d led us, taught us, and inspired us to love God and others without restraint. And to run the race with passion to the very end.

Then we played a single worship song: Matt Redman’s “10,000 Reasons.” Standing around his bed, we sang loud and strong, the tears falling like a flood. In spite of the countless times we’d sung the same song at church, this time was different. The words came alive. We now understood their truth. A man was slipping through our fingers, but heaven was not.

But Dad wasn’t to be outdone. He still had breath left. And so this man who had chosen Jesus and spent his life in worship opened his mouth and started to sing, even in death:

At the last note, with wife and children in hushed silence, he simply said, “Amen. Hallelujah.”

Those were the last words he ever spoke. With a sigh, he fell back into deep, peace-filled sleep. Seventy-two hours later, he was gone.

Even now, more than a year later, I hear the echo of his singing. My dad gave voice to what has stirred in my soul from the moment of my birth: a longing for something more.

It’s as if every cell knows there is something far grander and worthier than what this temporary life offers. And I feel a chronic, unresolved longing, as if I’m waiting.

Because I am. And so are you. As beautiful and rich as this life can be, it’s merely a short-term vacation. A trip to a place with fresh sights and sounds and adventures. But a temporary destination. We are living out of suitcases, grateful for the gift, but knowing it cannot compare with home.

On the days when the story of my life is hard, when the sweetness is swallowed by the reality of pain and brokenness, this thought—this hope—is the only thing that gets me through.

Whatever your story, whatever tornado has ripped through your life and landed you in a place with which you’re not familiar, there is one who knows how to get you back home.

A Savior.

A God With Us who promised to come for us.

“Behold, I am coming soon!” He says.

And so we wait, eyes to the sky, searching and hoping that maybe today—today!—will be the day when this life slips through our fingers, and the next life—our real life—begins.

Home.

Amen, hallelujah. Praise the Lord.

Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden startling joys. Surely it wasn’t reasonable of the Lord of the Universe to come and walk this earth with us and love us enough to die for us and then show us everlasting life? We will all grow old, and sooner or later we will die, like the old trees in the orchard. But we have been promised that this is not the end. We have been promised life.

—MADELEINE L’ENGLE, WALKING ON WATER