heaven

I hear her still, the beautiful pure tones spilling into the air like bird song in the early morning quiet.

“On a clear day, you can see forever…”

It was many years ago I first heard the heart-stopping sound of Barbra Streisand’s unique voice singing that song.

I thought she was right.

All of life lay in front of me. In plain sight, I could see the future—the beautiful wife, two kids, a great career. I could see all the way to grandchildren and retirement. There would always be friends, and always a church. Always.

I could see it vividly, on those clear days.

It may come as a surprise to some. It did to me.

They’re not all clear days.

Oh, there have been days, when as Christian in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, I stood on the mountaintop and thought I could just make out—barely—the lights of the Celestial City.

Lately, I’m not even sure they’re mostly clear days.

I certainly haven’t stood on any mountaintops recently to take a peek through the telescope at what’s coming. Days are just filled with daily things.

Family concerns, friends with health concerns, and loved ones lost—all these and more are what is reality for me—and many others—these days. Happy times? They come too, but somehow we can’t see far beyond them.

Step by slogging step, the road goes past.

I may not see forever all that clearly anymore. But what I do see, by the calendar and by the frenzy of last minute preparations around me, is that it’s Christmas week.

I used to wonder if the Baby, whose birth we celebrate this week, saw it all before Him as He stepped out to take His place among men.

Did He see the path laid out from His lowly birth in a cow barn, all the way to an ignominious criminal’s death on a man-made tree? Was every step clear to Him?

They are questions I cannot answer. Theologians have been arguing them from that day until now.

Here is what I do know:

He knew who He was. As a young man He taught in the temple, calling it His Father’s house . (Luke 2:49)

He knew why He was here. He went about His Father’s business. When He began His ministry, He never faltered in His purpose. Always, without leaving the path, He moved steadily toward the day when He would die on that cross.

He knew who He was here for. Along the way, He touched people’s hearts and their bodies, healing and making whole. Teaching them, feeding them, exhorting them, He demonstrated His heart and drew them to Himself—by the thousands.

He was, indeed, the light of the world! (John 8:12)

And with that thought kindled in my mind, I begin to see the truth about my own situation.

The truth.

I don’t have to see the end of the journey; I just have to put one foot in front of the other.

There’s enough light for that.

The Word, the One who came and lived among men, is the same Word that is the lamp to my path and the Light for my feet. (Psalm 119:105)

Barbra needed her clear day.

We’ve got a light for the darkest night.

And on a clear day…
On a clear day…
You can see forever…
And ever…
And ever…
And ever more.
(from On a Clear Day, You Can See Forever ~ Alan Jay Lerner ~ American lyricist ~ 1918-1986)

For we walk by faith and not by sight.
(2 Corinthians 5:7 ~ NIV)

I joked with the Lovely Lady as I headed for my office tonight.

“I’m not sure there are any words left in me, but the morning light will tell the tale.”

“Ha!” The humorless laugh burst from her lips. “You said that awhile back, and I’ve had to proof thousands of your words since then.”

She has a point. Only days ago, I felt the well was bone dry, and my efforts at pumping the handle utterly futile. I had said all I had to say, shared all the wisdom I have gathered over my lifetime. Hopelessly, I gave the handle one more push. One final, desperate attempt. I don’t know from whence the words came (I never have anyway), but suddenly they gushed out. Like water on the parched earth, they washed away the dust and debris, leaving fertile ground in their tracks.

For awhile. You may have read some of them. They may even have made sense to you.

I hope you enjoyed the experience.

The well has dried up again. Or, so it seems to me.

I remember when all I had to do was to walk up to the warehouse where the nouns, the adjectives, the adverbs, and the verbs were stored, and yell at the building. Immediately, they all piled out the door in a long conga-line of letters and punctuation, ready to swing into action. I could always find a few conjunctions to hold them all together, as well.

Tonight, I stood outside and yelled, but nothing stirred. Then, like the police SWAT team, I even walked through the building clearing each room, but only turned up two or three words in my search. They’re lined up outside now, after I ordered them out of the building.

I wonder if they’ll be any help to me. I’ll hit them with the spotlight just in case.

father. house.

That’s it? No wait. There’s something hiding behind the first one. Yes, I see it. An apostrophe and the letter s.

Father’s house? Oh. I know what this is about. I don’t want you guys. You can go.

What’s that? You want to know what it’s about?

I warn you. It won’t be pretty. They’re only a couple of scrawny little words right now, but as soon as I use them, they’re going to be joined by a lot of other words you don’t want to hear—words like memories, the past, sadness, moving on, maybe even death.

I’ll tell it, but it won’t be a pretty picture, I can assure you. I know I don’t want to see it. In fact, that’s the reason the words were hiding. I stashed them there in the dark myself and told them to stay out of my sight.

I was going to say the story started just a few days ago, but suddenly I am aware that it really began over fifty years in the past.

That’s when we moved into that home. Seven of us moved in, fresh from a tiny mobile home on the two-acre lot across the street. Seven. We thought the place was a mansion. Well? After cramming seven people in that little two bedroom trailer, it was a mansion.

Fifty-two years of living, loving, arguing, yelling, crying, singing, eating, playing, talking, listening, sewing, writing, hair-cutting, nursing, reading, sleeping, cleaning fish, plucking chickens, and—well, you get the idea.

It all happened there, and a lot more. A lot more. Cousins came to visit, along with grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends, preachers, missionaries, and tattooed men riding motorcycles.

Mostly, it was the seven of us. Making memories to last a lifetime, some warm and fuzzy, some not so nice. We’ve all got the good with the bad. For many of us, time rubs the rough edges off and the good memories shine brightly, while the bad ones fade into the background.

And, what’s so bad about all that, one might ask? I told you it wouldn’t be pretty, didn’t I?

The not pretty thing is that it’s all coming to an end. I mentioned the story begins a few days ago. That’s when the letter arrived.

The place is going to be sold. It sounded so calm and businesslike. Clean. Painless. My intellect agrees. I told the man so.

“It’s a great idea, Dad. You should have done it years ago.”

My intellect doesn’t rule my heart. My heart wants to know how you sell your memories. My heart wonders if perhaps it would be less painless to cut off a hand.

I sit and look over all the words which have trooped out to join the original two and the truth dawns.

I haven’t set foot on that property for nearly ten years. Except for sporadic periods of time, no one has lived in it for nearly twenty years. Yet somehow, my memories of my time there are still intact and clear as they ever were. The loving feelings for my parents and siblings, nurtured and tended to there in that two-story residence, remain to this day.

The old ramshackle frame building is in need of someone else to inhabit it. Perhaps it will, one day soon, be home to another young family who will abuse and test its structural limitations, much like the Phillips brats did.

It’s time. Still, the act of selling it is so final. We can never go back. Never.

Except in our memories.

It’s time.

Those two words are still slouching against the warehouse, though. They haven’t been used yet. Perhaps, I can put them back away for another day. But then again, maybe not.

Father’s house.

Funny. The words never described the building I’ve been writing of. That was my family’s residence. Sure, it was a home, as far as homes go here. It was a great place to live and love and share.

It was always temporary.

You see, my mom has already moved on to the Father’s house. My dad is recognizing that it won’t be many years and he’ll be changing his address permanently, as well. Going to his Father’s house.

My intellect knows that it is a better residence than what they’ve had here. Absent from the body. Present with the Lord. (2 Cor 5:8)

My head knows this.

Still, my heart aches to think of it. It is so for all of us.

And again, I look at those words and contemplate others I also believe, and I know the memories will have to do.

For now.

We’re all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father’s house.

We're all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father's house. Share on X

It’s not for sale.

But there are mansions to live in there.

My Father’s house.

Good words.

There are many dwelling places in my Father’s house. Otherwise, I would have told you, because I am going away to make ready a place for you.
(John 14:12 ~ NET)

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
(Oliver Wendell Homes, Sr. ~ American physician/poet ~ 1809-1894)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

On a Clear Day

My Father’s House