I know you and Dad saw a piece of our early childhood bruised and lonely. The subsequent owners neglected it like a stray cat. Its ribs were poking out, its rosy complexion, pale and lifeless. Your nostalgic ‘drive by’ led you to the ugliest house on the block. The cushy grass you often trampled to scoop us after a fall, is now crunchy and brown. The sidewalk where Dad chased close behind while I learned to ride my bike, is cracked and uneven. Not a trace of the tender attention you poured into it is reflected in life's rear-view mirror.
Don’t be sad.
That house wasn’t built to last. The present space--where your grandchildren gather to giggle and bake--won’t last either. The olive tree in the front that every neighborhood kid triumphantly climbed, has already passed away. The gaping hole where it once reached to the sky reminds me, life is a breath.
Houses of wood, stone and brick crumble. The branches of epic climbing trees rot away.
I want you and Dad to know one thing...
You’ve built a house for me more gorgeous than any Zillow listing...
A house built on Christ, the solid rock.
When you prayed over dinner, over sickness or at the foot of my bed as I drifted off…
A strong foundation was poured.
Prayer wasn’t only for hard times.
Prayer was for all times.
Prayer was for everything in my life.
When you brought us to spend long afternoons piecing together puzzles with widows like ‘Grandma Myrtle’, I didn’t understand…
A thoughtful frame was being pieced together.
Love is patient & kind.
Everyone is worthy.
I was worthy.
When you’d order bags of extra hamburgers at Burger King to hand out to the homeless man after church, I was unsure of the filthy, life-worn hands grabbing at the food…
Strong walls were being raised in my life-
God sees everyone.
God loves everyone.
God sees and loves me.
When I woke up exhausted the morning of my baptism--burdened with bad dreams--you helped me get dressed. You rolled down my ruffled sock whispering, ‘There’s an enemy. He doesn’t want you to get baptized. You cannot let him win"...
The roof of my spiritual house was secured.
I would experience fierce battles in my life.
My God was stronger and fiercer.
God made me strong and fierce.
Now that I’m a Mommy, I want my precious kiddos to dwell in a solid spiritual house like the one you created for me. I thought of this as I baptized my children, your grandchildren, in the very backyard pool you’ve generously opened to friends and neighbors for the past thirty-two years. I felt God beaming with pride as Aaron and I dipped their precious heads back into the water.
The Great Commission starts in the home. I learned this from you. I’m aware God will equip us to build a spiritual house with a unique rhythm and calling.
But it’s not a new house.
We’re expanding the construction you’ve started--just as you added a fresh wing to what your parents crafted for you.
“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock”. Matthew 7:24-25
Mom and Dad, the rain has fallen, the floods have come, winds have blown and beaten on the house, but it has not fallen. It never will.
One day, we'll dwell in the house of the Lord together, forever. The grass will never turn a dusty brown and paint will never peel. There will be more than one olive tree for your grandchildren, and their great grandchildren, to climb.
I imagine we'd have tears of joy...if tears were allowed. But they're not.
So don't cry Mom.
by Jenna Masters
