Bruce Baber (11 June 2017)
"My True Home"

Over there is my true home.  Not built by craftsmen, carpenters, plumbers, or masons.  Instead it stands lovingly constructed in the finest, most exquisite detail by the King of kings.  He who knit the fabric of all creation.  The stars and planets.  The atoms and molecules.  

I long for that place so perfectly detailed.  It is as perfectly matched to me as my own arms, or legs.  It will be an extension of my very own glorified body.  I used to worry that I'd grow bored with a home I'd lived in for a thousand years, but I was foolish.  I could no more be bored by it than I could be of my own hand, or head.  It will be as sublime as the body I will receive.

Some authors have come close to describing the true home that I imagine.  C. S. Lewis was one such writer whose descriptions are so delightful that I re-read his passages over and over to enjoy the feelings they instill.

There's another author who also comes to mind.  Mary Russell Mitford.  She wrote Our Village which is an idealized description of a quaint English hamlet over one hundred years ago. Though her book is about a tiny village, it serves as my inspiration for what I feel heaven might be like.  She wrote the following.

"Of all situations for a constant residence, that which appears to me most delightful is a little village far in the country; a small neighbourhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled, but of cottages and cottage-like houses... with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we know every one, interested in every one, and authorized to hope that every one feels an interest in us."

There is incredible majesty in that which is simply cozy.  We hear so much about the grandeur of heaven and rightfully so. But, there is also a beauty that calls to my soul and is as natural to me as the marrow in my bones.  It is a simple beauty that only God can fashion in the same way that He made a mother's smile, a robin's egg and the red and yellow leaves on the autumn trees.  I know it will nearly burst my heart with joy to see the dog I lost so many years ago come bounding to me, or the faces of my parents and grandparents who are radiant in splendor.

As much as I imagine my heavenly home, I am reminded that the Apostle John said that I cannot comprehend the beauty of heaven.  Glory and never ending praise be to Jesus who made it all. 

Over there is my true home. 

Bruce Baber