“He cracks open the door and lures us to come and stand in the light of our Home.”
I stand in the symphony of the beach while wind whips loose hair and wild waves pound settled sand. One son pushes his plastic dump truck, making new tracks in the sand, and the other runs down the beach, bent on reaching the fishing pier in the far distance. My husband’s pants are rolled above his ankles and he grazes the surf, jabbing left, barely missing its bubbly waters.
And I smell it, the scent of a garden, the aroma of Eden. I feel it, the shaking of earth, the trembling of ground as heaven storms down. Here, I am tucked into the thin place, the sacred intersection of heaven and earth. Here, I am standing where the door Home is cracked and light pours in, as joy slips through the sliver of its opening. In the light of heaven and in the joy of Home, the tides of eternity sweep fear and wound into its timeless waters where they float forever away.
I have often described deep grief as an intense feeling of homesickness and a desperate sense of being lost. It is through the world, tiptoeing through the shards of the foundation on which you used to firmly stand. It is searching for a place of comfort, a space for reprieve as you hunt for a way to reverse the irreversible, while dodging the broken glass of the life you once knew. Walking through grief feels a lot like one long, wandering and blind search for home.
But in the search, in the lost wandering, heaven slips in and out with just enough grace to lift the head, to squint the eyes, to call us to look and see. Mystery penetrates the mundane and holiness tames the longing. Though aching with loss, while sorrow tears through fragility, He shows us heaven. With a whisper and a nudge, He pulls back the roof and the walls tumble down. He cracks open the door and lures us to come and stand in the light of our Home.
Oh, I know that no eye has seen and no ear has heard what He has prepared for those who love Him. But let us with eyes and us with ears, us with homesick hearts and wandering spirits, continue to find the thin place, the light of a cracked door. Where we know that though we are planted on earth, we are rooted in heaven, and all headed Home.
My husband, pants now soaked from the surf and face now red from the wind, grabs the son who runs and throws him over his shoulder. Together they turn to face me and begin charging my way, howling with laughter. Though my smile is quiet, my spirit is belting praise. And the ground is shaking and the garden is growing wild. Hallelujahs rush right through me while I stand for a moment on shards of glass put perfectly back together without the slightest crack.
Heaven’s door is open wide and I catch a glimpse of the light of Home forever.