|This building looks exactly|
like the one I grew up
in in Chicago. We lived
on the first floor.
|Either this depicts Jesus in the Garden or when He cried out how|
He longed to gather His people like a hen gathers her chicks.
On the opposite wall was a picture of the Last Supper.
|My mother always bought pictures of the Last Supper (not necessarily this one,|
though this is the one that hung in our dining room) as house warming gifts,
unless she new the family already had one.
In the living room hung a painted portrait of my mother on her First Communion Day, a picture of me on my First Communion Day, my parent's wedding photo, and a collage of photos of friends and family.
None of these things made that house near Lawrence and Pulaski a home. Oh, don't get me wrong. I loved that my home included all of those things. But that isn't what made them my home. Indeed, when my Mother became ill and "temporarily" came to live with us, I'd do routine checks on that house, and already it no longer felt like home. It was only home as long as someone who loved me was there. Maybe that's why we tell people to make themselves at home when they visit. It's like we are saying "Hey, you are loved here. Don't be afraid to let your guard down! It's all good!"
I imagine that is also why we Christians say that our true home is in Heaven. Who loves us more than God? No one. Who accepts us more fully, "as is"? No one. So then it only makes sense that Heaven is our real home. And now with both my Momma and my Daddy there, Heaven is an even more welcoming place, though it would seem impossible, like adding to infinity.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not overly anxious to leave this world. I have a wonderful husband who makes this world more "homey", and I dread the thought of leaving him in a world less loving with a house less homey. But I have become more joyful at the prospect of Jesus preparing a home for us together in Heaven. A home that includes those we love.