While we were caring for my mom after a massive stroke, we started working on the backyard. We had always planned to do something nice, but much of this was for my mom. Living in Lake Havasu for many years, grass was a luxury that we did not have, except for a time when she had a patch about the size of a floor mat. So when she was here we started making plans to plant grass and make the yard a haven for her. She never got to see the finished project, but she would have loved it. As I went about decorating the gazebo that we put up, I thought of her. I picked out the pretty little wind chime that to me seemed to have the perfect pitch. Light and tinkly it sounds so pretty on a breezy day. It wasn't until that recent day outside though that I realized that to me, that sound was the sound of home.
I don't have a lot of joyful memories of my childhood or teen years. Things were rough in my home. I have talked about this in some previous posts. Though now I know my parents loved me, back then they were broken people who acted out of that brokenness. So to have something to remind me of home is not always a pleasant thing. But I do remember a wind chime that my dad had hung up in the backyard. I could hear it outside my bedroom window, especially when the monsoon weather was upon us, causing those chimes to make a frenzy of noise.
But sitting outside the other day that sound gave me such a feeling of nostalgia I wanted to cry. To have a sound that reminded me of the good things of home really touched my heart. It was like an echo of what should have been.
There is another echo that I hear in my heart. Another sound that reminds me of home. A murmer of what is to come.
It is the sound of a song that is sung in heaven. A song that we who follow Christ, will all hear.
When my dad was dying of cancer I was privileged to help my mom care for him. The doctors had told us he had six months, but he only lasted two weeks. What was his final morning seemed to be the same as the previous few. We had him at home in his bedroom. He had not been conscious for days. I would go in and clean him up, change his pain patch and play music for him that I hoped he could hear and would bring him peace. Much of it was instrumental; beautiful chords flowing through that room filling it with His peace.
That morning as I was sitting with him, I heard loudly and clearly, these words; "Go get the cd you have in the truck and play track 5". I don't second guess these things. I ran to the truck, got the cd and played that track. I heard the Lord tell me that soon my dad would be hearing what was being sung on that cd in person. The song told of the angels crying 'Holy, holy is the Lord'.
Up until that point I had not known for sure that my dad had accepted Jesus as his Lord and Saviour. Jim and I had talked to him about it, we had certainly prayed about it, but we had never seen confirmation. This, what was happening at that moment, was the confirmation I had been waiting for.
I ran and got my mom. I told her that dad's time here was almost done. As that song played on repeat, I saw tears begin to run down my dad's face. Just before he passed into the presence of our Father, his arms raised up almost of their own accord and then he was gone. You have to realize that he had not moved for the past three days. Nothing. So for him to raise him arms up straight above his head was a miracle in itself.
My dad had heard the sounds of home. A sound that he had not heard before, but that he recognized in his heart and spirit. And when he heard that sound, I know that he finally felt peace and then in the twinkling of an eye, was in the arms of his Lord.
My heart and spirit can faintly hear that chorus of heaven. I cannot wait until the moment when the faint echo that I hear becomes a resounding symphony. When I am finally in the presence of my Father and my Lord and that melody welcomes me home.