When You Can Almost Taste Home
The man walked by us as we were standing in line to order our lunch, the post-church Sunday ritual.
He stopped when he saw us, all eight of us standing there, little boys wiggling and squirming restlessly, older kids discussing the earth shattering decision of chicken sandwich versus chicken nuggets.
He stopped and counted them.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, and that one's Moe."
He laughs and pats my husband on the back. He leans in, friendly and whispers, "Are all these yours? My, my, children are a blessing now aren't they."
"Yes, they are," We grin and nod.
He visits a while with Jon as they wait for their orders. This older man, crown of white, so fatherly and wise, telling stories of grace and God. He talks of Jesus and kids and blessings. Food comes, they part ways. We eat our fast food in frenzy of kids and noise and chicken.
I walk over to toss trash in a metal can and run into this tall grandfather again.
"Thank you, have a blessed day." I call out.
"Oh, you too. What a very lovely family you have. So wonderful that these kids get to grow up in a Christian family. I didn't. Not at all. But my grandma, she prayed. She always prayed for me. I ran away at thirteen, then again at sixteen. Ran away from God too but He never stopped chasing me. I finally just gave up, I surrendered to the Lord and said, Jesus, you know best, and I don't. Forgive me. I belong to you. And he saved me, redeemed me. All this mess, he redeemed. And he keeps leading me, teaching me, even though I haven't always been the best student."
"None of us are, you know."
"Oh, yes, I know. It's all grace."
"Until we see him face to face," I smile big and happy.
Standing there, I'm struck by his hat, this pure, plain, white baseball cap. I wonder, does he know, he looks like an angel?
He walks over to our table with me and says goodbye to my husband and then, he prays.
Right there in Wendy's, he lays his hand on my husband's shoulder, and he prays for us all.
Prays blessing and protection and grace on us.
And then he is gone.
And I think, yes. This stranger and us, we are family. Whether we've known each other for five minutes or fifty years, just telling the story of God's grace, it's like sitting down at the table with family, like going home.
Home to the home we've never been to, yet long for earnestly.
Home to heaven and the heart of this God of such great grace that he opens his arms and his home to all us broken and betrayers and
beloved.
We are his beloved.
He calls us home.
He says, "Come. Supper's waiting for you here. I know you've been gone a long, long time, but here, just open the door and come in. Come home."
And from time to time, we meet this far off family, and even if we've never locked eyes until now, it only takes a second to realize, this is a face from home.
All these stories of grace, mine and yours, they are only threads in this Tapestry, telling His Story, pointing to the One, the God of all grace, who takes all these tangled strings and weaves beauty out of all the broken.
And for just a moment, I can almost taste home.
He stopped when he saw us, all eight of us standing there, little boys wiggling and squirming restlessly, older kids discussing the earth shattering decision of chicken sandwich versus chicken nuggets.
He stopped and counted them.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, and that one's Moe."
He laughs and pats my husband on the back. He leans in, friendly and whispers, "Are all these yours? My, my, children are a blessing now aren't they."
"Yes, they are," We grin and nod.
He visits a while with Jon as they wait for their orders. This older man, crown of white, so fatherly and wise, telling stories of grace and God. He talks of Jesus and kids and blessings. Food comes, they part ways. We eat our fast food in frenzy of kids and noise and chicken.
I walk over to toss trash in a metal can and run into this tall grandfather again.
"Thank you, have a blessed day." I call out.
"Oh, you too. What a very lovely family you have. So wonderful that these kids get to grow up in a Christian family. I didn't. Not at all. But my grandma, she prayed. She always prayed for me. I ran away at thirteen, then again at sixteen. Ran away from God too but He never stopped chasing me. I finally just gave up, I surrendered to the Lord and said, Jesus, you know best, and I don't. Forgive me. I belong to you. And he saved me, redeemed me. All this mess, he redeemed. And he keeps leading me, teaching me, even though I haven't always been the best student."
"None of us are, you know."
"Oh, yes, I know. It's all grace."
"Until we see him face to face," I smile big and happy.
Standing there, I'm struck by his hat, this pure, plain, white baseball cap. I wonder, does he know, he looks like an angel?
He walks over to our table with me and says goodbye to my husband and then, he prays.
Right there in Wendy's, he lays his hand on my husband's shoulder, and he prays for us all.
Prays blessing and protection and grace on us.
And then he is gone.
And I think, yes. This stranger and us, we are family. Whether we've known each other for five minutes or fifty years, just telling the story of God's grace, it's like sitting down at the table with family, like going home.
Home to the home we've never been to, yet long for earnestly.
Home to heaven and the heart of this God of such great grace that he opens his arms and his home to all us broken and betrayers and
beloved.
We are his beloved.
He calls us home.
He says, "Come. Supper's waiting for you here. I know you've been gone a long, long time, but here, just open the door and come in. Come home."
And from time to time, we meet this far off family, and even if we've never locked eyes until now, it only takes a second to realize, this is a face from home.
All these stories of grace, mine and yours, they are only threads in this Tapestry, telling His Story, pointing to the One, the God of all grace, who takes all these tangled strings and weaves beauty out of all the broken.
And for just a moment, I can almost taste home.
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