Over The Wall

My husband and I have been married for thirty years.
We have lived in one apartment and three houses during our married life.
As our family grew, our homes grew a bit to accommodate the seven of us.
We have moved locally each time.

The house we lived in before our current home was one that we built.
It was nestled in the woods.
Deer in our yard was a common sight.

The builder removed just enough trees to build our home.
My husband decided that he would clear an area at the far edge of our property.
He called it a meadow.

He designed a winding grass path that led back to the meadow.
It was far enough away that our children could explore.
But close enough that everything was clearly seen through my kitchen window.

The meadow meant more grass to cut for my husband, but it was worth the effort.
The children loved it.

The back of our property had an old stone wall…weathered…mossy…wonderful.
The other side of that wall was another township.
It was a rule in our house that you did not cross over the wall.
The woods were thick and we had no idea what was on the other side.

It’s funny how a family remembers things.
We all went out to dinner the other night.
The wall and the meadow came up in conversation.

Our oldest son told us his memories.

Remember how we were never allowed to go over the wall?
Remember how the trees were white?

We each recounted different memories of the meadow and did indeed remember that the trees on the other side of the wall were birch trees and their bark was white.

I always thought it was another country.
I wanted so much to climb over the wall…but the trees…

We all smiled at the memory.
Then my husband added one of his own.

But then there was the day you told me about the fort on the other side of the wall.
If you could have seen your faces…as you realized you had just incriminated yourself.
How would you have known about the fort on the other side of the wall…unless…

Caught…eighteen years later!

My husband admitted that he went over and tore down the makeshift fort.
It had obviously been built by very young hands and was dangerous to climb on.

I thought of Narnia and wardrobes and lampposts.
Crossing over to another world…a world where it is always winter but never Christmas.
A world without Aslan.

I thought of our world…of Incarnation…Death…Resurrection…Ascension.
A world of spring and re-birth.
A world with Jesus.

I tell you the truth, whoever hears My word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life and will not be condemned; he has crossed over from death to life. (John 5:24)

We don’t have to climb over a wall or walk through a wardrobe.
We cross over by way of a literal cross…the cross of Jesus Christ.
The tree that He was nailed to was not white, but red…with His precious Blood.

We will cross over, if we believe in the finished work of Christ for our salvation.
Not to a world with makeshift forts and unknown dangers.
But a perfect world…a redeemed world…and He is there.

The homes we will one day live in are being prepared by Him.
Prepared not with young hands…but prepared by the One with nail scarred Hands.

In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with Me that you also may be where I am. (John 14:2,3)

Until that time, we keep watching.
Watching through the kitchen window.

Maranatha…Come Lord Jesus. (Revelation 22:20)