| Luke 22:18 – “For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” |
So nice after time away from home to come home. There truly is no place like home. I even enjoy getting take out food and going home to eat it. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. It was written by John Howard Payne in 1823 and put to music. Growing up in the military, I had a warped view of what home was. Uncle Sam does not allow you to settle in or put down roots. But my grandparents houses? That was home to me. Tiny as they were, I loved to be there. Nothing too grand in them. Always the same furniture. But that is what I loved. They were frozen in time. Nothing changed. That is what I needed. Today, we had the only carpet our boys ever knew pulled up and replaced. Please forgive us. My father’s mother had our heights marked on her patio, in her ever perfect penmanship, with the date and initials beside each mark. A cast iron wall hanging in her kitchen read “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for these lovely children of mine, but some rainy morning, try offering me a dime.” We have furniture that belonged to my grandparents. I treasure that connection that spans the generations. In our kitchen hangs photos of the Beall bakery from 1935 and 1940. All of those in the photos are deceased now. My then five year old uncle died a few years ago. I wear a few of his shirts that my aunt gave me after he passed. They fit me nicely, and remind me of him each time I wear them. I have a Timex watch on my wrist as I type this that was my fathers. I wear socks that were his, shirts that he wore. I have a silver dollar that my mother’s father gave me to jump start my modest coin collection. I think of him each time I peruse through my coins. Our sons wanted to see them recently. I need to pass them on to the next generation. I want to pass on my guitar to one of them. I believe in the power of sentimental things. They remind us of someone dear. There is a sign in our kitchen, metal, painted, scratched. “Beall’s. That Good Bread”. I never set foot in that bakery, but it presides over our kitchen. Each Sunday, we pass the communion trays. Bread and juice. Not much of a feast. A tiny chiclet of bread and a sip of juice. It is a spiritual feast. Just a taste to remind us of someone and something He did. “Do this in my memory.” And a lovely homecoming awaits us, no? When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there! That is certainly where my hope lies. Father in heaven, thank You for a promised welcome home, in Jesus’ name, Amen!
- Jeff Beall
