Home away from Home

Michal and I are in the process of purchasing our first home together.   As I look through various listings that match our budget, my heart is yearning for a place of warmth and romance, a place that my dreams call home.

In my imagination, our house is contained on a lush slice of space, where the verdant lawn feeds our sight and the pink blossoms soothe our senses.  This tract is far removed from the chaos of rowdy engines and blaring sirens, on a street with no end and no commercial clutter.  Children are playing outside, free from dread and full of glee.  A soft wind rustles through the linden tree, and a bright sun smiles its approval through the kitchen window.  Everywhere I look, there is a morsel of green to stimulate the soul and purify the air.   This patch  of grass and blossoms is a place of perpetual vacation for our thoughts and an inspiration for our heavenly ascent.

As much as I nurture this recess of my dreams,  our present circumstances remind me that such a place is outside our reach (pending a miracle, of course).   As vivid as this reality of unfulfilled dreams is, as clearer the substance of heaven emerges.  This space of disordered byways and jammed pavements is not my home.  This minute corner of the Milky Way galaxy, a speck of dust in the blueprint of a measureless universe, is not my destiny.  I am designed and commissioned for heaven.  My residence is a place of  proportions that exhaust my understanding and sink my imagination. 

Heaven is the atmosphere of joy-an ocean always flowing and never tainted by melancholy.  Tears, or worry, or want are outside the scope of paradise reality.   There is no want for treasures or titles, nor is there loss or end.  There we need not hide from elements of rain or dust, nor retire under the canopy of night.  Its currency is love, and its light is the Face of God.  God penetrates everything and everyone-thus only His followers, in holiness and purity, will secure their address there.

The place we will likely call home here is stratospheres away from my dreams.  However, I am content with that.  This ride of measured moments is not the final station. My gaze is upward, my hope is inward. God's glory is the end and the beginning.

"And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying.  There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."

"Blessed are those who do His commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter through the gates into the city."







My father

This week my father celebrated sixty years of life under the sun.

It is hard to summarize the impact my dad has had upon my life and those closest to him.  He has touched us in so many ways, and has left his imprints upon such vast corridors of our hearts.  My best attempt to detail his influence could only be marginal in scope, for the man that I call Dad is more complex than my impoverished words may shape him to be.

I can remember, as a child, my father reciting Romanian poems such as "The Queen of Ostrogots", "Night of May", and "El Zorab".  These sessions of recital unleashed in me a flood of desire for the nobility of words and their power to elevate the threshold of beauty in the human heart.  Listening to his voice, I could feel the anguish of a dispossessed queen, the sorrow of a widowed wife, the flutter of a lover's heart, the weight of age upon one's mind...  My father's voice, at times soft with whisper, at times thunderous with feeling, gave breath to history's most tumultuous figures, worlds away in character and struggles.  We, the hearers, were changed-at least for the moment-and aroused to seek elegance of thought and feeling in our otherwise mundane existence.

Later in my teens, as my father had a life-changing encounter with God, he once again became a primary agent in shaping my destiny.  Late at night, as we were all in bed, I would hear my father agonizing for hours in prayer for the eternal salvation of souls.  He prayed for his loved ones by name, every night.  He poured out his soul like water for God's revival upon his village, a place he still speaks of often with tears of compassion.  God answered, and our faith grew.  I became hooked to the God of my father, the God who became my Lord and my Friend, to whom I owe my breath and my devotion.

As an adult and with a family of my own, I continue to look to my father for help.  Talking to him, even about the mundane events of everyday life, is soothing.  Sometimes words aren't necessary-being around him is enough to calm my storms and encourage my spirit.  God has been most generous to give me a father who loves Him and intercedes daily for his daughters and the world far beyond his loved ones. My father is living a life of excellence as He serves his God wholeheartedly,  loves his family impartially and seeks the eternal and physical well-being of those around him.  My desire is to emulate his passion for God and love for the souls of men as he lives a life of purpose of fruitfulness.

Happy birthday Dad-and thank you.



Christmas

 Mary drew her Son close to her breast, the smell of His newborn skin enveloping her senses.  She could feel His breath exhaled in a soft mi...