A dear friend invited us to a concert of some of the Old Masters at a church that we used to attend. Liz and I went, anticipating hearing some beautiful music and connecting with folks we haven't seen for fourteen years. As we pulled into the parking lot, a wave of nostalgia swept over us. Liz' earliest memories of church were experienced there, as well as her conversion and baptism. The parking lot was my children's favorite playground for many years. We would stay very late on Wednesday nights, women talking in clusters, kids laughing and swirling around us. Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, fellowship meals, suppers and prayer meetings, weddings, funerals, Vacation Bible School, classes....the hours we spent there were uncountable and also the center of our social and spiritual life.
Somewhere along the way, our paths parted and the Lord took us down a different trail. We grew up Baptists and ended up PCA Presbyterians. That's the really conservative ones, but don't tell my Baptist friends. They were afraid we had flipped our lids. Our heart's cry never changed and we remained true to the Word of God and to the sufficiency and authority of the Scriptures. Presbyterians sprinkle and Baptists dunk. That was enough to kill each other over, a few hundred years ago. Hopefully we've gotten past that. That's probably good, since we might have to harmonize when we get to heaven.
But back to the concert...when we walked into the auditorium, we were enveloped like babies into a warm blanket. Old friends and acquaintances ran up, bear-hugging and crying out sweet words. It was a joy to let the years fall off and then sit down to listen. Voices rose, coached to perfection by a Mom who had decided to summon up her past and shake the rust off her talents. Goosebumps and tears kept cropping up as the exquisite words and music of Handel, Mozart, Haydn and the like soared into the still air. Oh yeah, I remember them. It was like cracking open a crusty treasure box to gleaming trinkets. Such wisdom, such passion. They don't write stuff like that anymore.
Too soon, the concert was over and the reception hall was full of fruit and cheese trays and more affection. When we left, the brisk night and the twinkling stars seemed to accentuate the preciousness of the evening. We talked about it all the way home. What might have been called Old Home Day or Homecoming really felt just like that. Across our lives full of changes, growth, babies, old folks, death and ever-shifting perspectives, the love of God crossed the lake. Now that's a bit of heaven right there.
But back to the concert...when we walked into the auditorium, we were enveloped like babies into a warm blanket. Old friends and acquaintances ran up, bear-hugging and crying out sweet words. It was a joy to let the years fall off and then sit down to listen. Voices rose, coached to perfection by a Mom who had decided to summon up her past and shake the rust off her talents. Goosebumps and tears kept cropping up as the exquisite words and music of Handel, Mozart, Haydn and the like soared into the still air. Oh yeah, I remember them. It was like cracking open a crusty treasure box to gleaming trinkets. Such wisdom, such passion. They don't write stuff like that anymore.
Too soon, the concert was over and the reception hall was full of fruit and cheese trays and more affection. When we left, the brisk night and the twinkling stars seemed to accentuate the preciousness of the evening. We talked about it all the way home. What might have been called Old Home Day or Homecoming really felt just like that. Across our lives full of changes, growth, babies, old folks, death and ever-shifting perspectives, the love of God crossed the lake. Now that's a bit of heaven right there.
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