where home is

My uncle died Sunday morning.
Moma is in Texas again right now, being with her sister. (Isn't that what sisters do? Be there when you need them most? I love sisters.)
Moma said Uncle Maurice kept saying he just needed to go home.

And now that's where he is.
He's home.

You know what I love about home?
You walk in and you're safe there. Your people are there. Your things are there. You feel that sigh of, ah... home when you walk in the front door, kicking off your shoes, leaving the day behind you.

And Sunday morning, Uncle Maurice said, Ah... home.


Heaven is the real home.
I love my home here. It's as home as home can get.
But that real home? I look forward to it.
I look forward to reproaches being wiped away. I look forward to regrets being forgotten. To tears wiped away forever. Enemies made at peace. Where "sin and sense molest no more". No more fight, no more struggle, no more sorrow.
The streets, the people, the sights and sounds. I've tried imagining it, and it's too big a thing for me to do it justice.

But you know what I look forward to the most? Sticking my hand in my Beloved's.
That's it. That'll be home.
Because home isn't where your heart is. It isn't where your people are. It isn't where you grew up. It isn't where you live.

Home is the second my hand touches His, and His eyes smile at me face to face.

And I'll kiss Him right on that scarred hand.
I like to think that I'll start thanking Him for all His great love right away, but I'm pretty sure I'll just be speechless for a few thousand years. And although I know our tears will all be wiped away, I kinda wonder if grateful tears will be allowed. Because I can't imagine not crying when I finally get to see Him. I plan on hanging onto Him for all I'm worth, and I hope you guys don't mind waiting in line for awhile because I won't be letting go.


I won't ever have to ask Him to forgive me for being a loser again.
I won't ever have to carry a single burden to Him again.
I won't ever cry on His shoulder again.
I won't go to Him and fume ever again.
I won't ever again have to ask Him to make me trust Him more.
I won't ever again run to Him with my mascara streaking.
I won't ever again have to say, Lord... are You there? Can You find me? Because I've wandered off. Again.


Because up there, with my hand in His, my wandering heart will be bound to His. Happily ever after.


And right now, Uncle Maurice is getting to enjoy all that. And even though I know death is a sorrow to us left behind, I can't help but imagine the shout that must've roared up when Uncle Maurice put his hand in Christ's.


And it just puts the biggest lump in my throat. A grateful lump.


And I can't wait for my own faith to be made sight.
I can't wait.