“As long as our hearts are still beating and there’s breath in our lungs, our story is still being written.”
— Unknown
Now, already well into another new year, I am encouraged by Jesus’ words… "Do not let your hearts be troubled.
Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you.
I am going there to prepare a place for you.
And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”
— John 14:1-3
I have faint recollections of my father’s house — the home where my father was born.
It was in a small community outside of Sackville, N.B., called Midgic Station.
As a young child, I recall our family occasionally visiting there on a quiet, Sunday afternoon.
A special black and white snapshot in our family album showed my Daddy’s home. With several family moves, that physical image has seemed to also have moved and now is nowhere in my collection.
I was fortunate to have a loving father that worked hard, caring for the needs of his growing family.
Fond memories include, occasionally being tucked into bed at night and Dad sharing a story with me or just chatting about my day.
Most families were large in those days, probably as the convenience of birth control was not yet in vogue. I was the “tail end of the litter” — the youngest of seven siblings.
At my appearance, along with me came a twin sister, whose life on this earth was only for a few days.
I’m told she was the largest, and seemed the healthiest. However, it was not in God’s plan for her to remain a part of our earthly family. So he took her on ahead to our Father’s house.
Meanwhile, and much later, I am still wondering the “why” of it all.
The house in which I was born — dubbed “the house on the hill,” could also be called my “father’s house.”
I learned it was a specially designed home by my father for his growing family. It had many delightful features and was somewhat the dream home for my Mom.
Objections were heard from my five sisters when plans were being made for a trade — a move to an aging farm house, complete with barn, a few cattle and a small acreage.
My Dad’s reasoning — “I can’t feed my children on just a house.”
It would be from this farm house that both my mom and dad moved on to their “Father’s house” — their heavenly home.
While on earth, Jesus often reassured His friends “not to fear,” he was making arrangements for them in his father’s house. (John 14:1-3)
He also says to us, “I’ve got this. Nothing will get to you that didn’t get past me first. Fear not! I am with you.”
So this same assurance, which he gave them is the same provision awaiting us, his children. He wants us to be with him forever in his Father’s house.
Some say, talking about Heaven feels almost like writing out your will and so we don’t want to think about it. It is just that our finite minds cannot possibly comprehend the wonder of it all.
My life has been rather busy since the entrance of the new year. I was blessed to have had a delightful visit with Andrew and Melissa in January, a Penticton day-trip to enjoy shopping and sight-seeing, a movie at the local theatre, The Return of Mary Poppins and recently, a live show featuring The Marvellous Wanderettes — a birthday gift from my daughters and, an overnight retreat with the Resurrection Anglican ladies' group.
Now, the frigid cold keeps me inside, enjoying the warmth of my fireplace in my cozy apartment, writing and doing lots of reading.
I have just returned from an enjoyable hymn sing with Gordon who regularly comes to bless us with music.
Life remains good in the (sometimes) sunny, but cold Okanagan.
— beulah
