We’re losing our grandpa, I think.  He’ll be 94 this summer and has lived a good life.  I sat next to his bed yesterday listening to disjointed accounts of childhood romps with various people who may or may not have ever existed.  Listened to him ramble in his raspy voice, chest filled with fluid, legs too.  And then at one point he stopped talking and reached out his hand toward the ceiling, his eyes distant from the present.  My breath caught in my throat and I found myself so jealous, thinking I’d give anything to see what he was seeing right then.  There is something so beautiful, sad too, but really beautiful about watching a Christ follower pass on.  You get tiny glimpses of heaven through them, not enough.  Never enough.  But glimpses still the same.  Was he reaching for his wives, Gert or Ruth?  For Mumsy?  For his Jesus?  And so in what could be the last moments I spent with him, he taught me yet another lesson about faith and living it well.  That our every moment should be spent with arms outstretched, reaching for Jesus.  That this grasping motion should be our knee-jerk reaction to everything.  Every.  Thing.  And it shouldn’t be born only of sorrow or suffering or deep rejoicing, but should come on the crest of every wave, even the teeny ones that move us just barely.  Those too, should send us to our knees, reaching for Father, remembering that our citizenship is there, not here, and groaning for a new Heaven and earth to come.  Just come.
This is me being real.  Trying to bend my mind around the idea of living in Jesus’ home.

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