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Yet, I cannot assign a different understanding of heaven principally based on cognitive development. It seems that the very experiences of Grace themselves pushed me into a corner, imploding almost all I had come to believe. The experience of Grace, as much as anything, erased the distance between the "my Father's house" and me, and brought a subtle understanding, more deeply felt than intellectually fathomed, of Home unspeakably near.
Thankfully, the time came when I began seeing this "mansion" differently: the "Father's house," then, not a physical building at another time and another place. I could discern this Gospel passage arising from the longing we have for Home, and a Home to welcome now, not merely at the end of the way, but all along the way. I could rejoice that Christ, not simply identified with the historical Jesus and to come at the end of the world, is always coming, always inviting us Home, and we can say "Yes" at any time, any place. Again, heaven became, in time, for me, all along the way, I only need to receive it. Heaven never withholds Itself. Home always has an open door. Home is not, then, merely a place for Christians, but a place for everyone.
* * *
So, amid all the speculations about the so-called end times, I prefer to meet Christ and welcome "the dwelling place" now. Why speculate on what I cannot know of some other proposed time and place, when I can taste such Love now? Possibly, I best simply say, "Heaven is." Or, even simpler, "Home."
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The opening photograph, taken from Waterman Trail running beside Back River, is of a cottage I rented for a stay in Georgetown, Maine this winter. I moved from Florida in the deepest south, to experience a winter in the far northeast United States. I loaded my pickup and headed as far north as possible, three days travel. I had never been in this region, so this has been, largely, an adventure into the unknown.
Persons here on this island, Georgetown Island, or the Five Islands, have laughed at me, kindly. I have shared the laughter with them. They are amazed a deep southerner, from the sunshine state, would come to Maine for the bitter winter. They remind me summer is the time to be here. I smile, I know the better time is simply the time I chose, for this was the choice. If I had chosen summer, that would have been the best time, for the same reason. And, now, spring is approaching slowly, and I look forward to relief from the snow, ice, and cold.
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Simply, this island and this cottage has become my winter home, and has become Home in being an expression of Something unmade, unseen. When I leave, Home will go with me, and I will say goodbye to this temporary stop along the way, even as when this body dies, for it, too, is only a temporary, fleeting house of Spirit. And, if as in the past, in leaving this cottage and island, I will not grieve, simply load up and leave, grateful for the gift of having been here.
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