Feet on the earth

As I write, we're on hour 8 of the 9-hour drive home from the beach...with 3 hours to go, according to Waze.  I'm thankful that sitting in traffic has been our only involvement in the wrecks jamming all the interstates.

I think we managed to leave our beach house this year without any tears, but it's always challenging to transition from tropical vacation to reality.

Last week, before the beach, I was invited to and attended a spa night at a friend's house.  There were four of us there receiving various spa treatments... with all our children in the house.

It was laughable to sit under a steaming face towel and be told, "Relax.  This is you time," while the kids ran around and around and sometimes in and out of the room.

The spa evening started with a question:  "What is your dream?"

If money and time were no thing, what would you want to do?

Some of the ladies answered more immediately.

Move to the Bahamas.

Hire household help.

"I would relax.  I would sit on my ass all day... I would do Nothing."

-Peter Gibbons

I had a hard time coming up with an answer.   I finally settled on living in a Jane Austen novel or Downton Abbey, with their formal dresses and choreographed social occasions and ringing for tea.

But the question stayed with me all week.

What would I want?

To be a brilliant blogger?

To be awesome at All the Things?

To be the Nester and the Foodist and a concert pianist and Anna Quindlin and Elizabeth Bennet all in one?  

How about to know Christ, and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His suffering?

How about to be so wrapped up in Christ that you rejoice in this life He's given you and it never occurs to you to want for anything else except to know Him and make Him known?


How about to be perfectly content?

How about to store all of my hope of riches in heaven, where moth does not eat, entropy does not destroy, and it doesn't break the bank?

I don't need my house to look like a cross between Pottery Barn and shabby chic, because my Jesus is preparing a place for me right now beyond my imaginings. 

I don't need superhuman energy now, because then I will be fully awake and alive and see clearly, not as through a mirror.

The curse will be lifted, along with decay and the relentless descent into chaos.

I don't have to be countess of Downton Abbey, in a Jane Austen novel, in the Bahamas on the beach, have a personal chef/maid/nanny/tutor/gardener, travel to France to eat baguettes.

I don't need any of that now, because all good things are coming to me in eternity.

I can wait for that.  I don't need that.  Can you wait til you're dead for that?  Or do you gotta have it now?... Your capacities for pleasure right now are infinitesimally small compared to what they need to be in order to maximally enjoy this inheritance [in heaven], which is everything that God has to give, plus God Himself.

John Piper, "Children, Heirs, and Fellow Sufferers"

These were the thoughts in my mind as we headed out for our week of indulgence, ease, and minimal responsibility at the beach.

As we lounged one day in beach chairs under the shade of a canopy, listening to the gentle surf and enjoying the view and the breeze, I asked Jason, "Do you think heaven will be like Hilton Head?"

"Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water.  And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

-J. R. R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

Throughout the week, we biked until my butt was bruised (didn't take long), and I jogged every morning until I was bathed in sweat (also didn't take long), and as I went along, I gazed at the various houses I passed.

And I wondered, Will my house in heaven have floor-to-ceiling windows?

Will it have cushy carpet under my bare feet?

Will it have outsized nautical-themed decor?

Or will it be a cozier, comfortable cottage?

I don't know.

I'm not as well versed in what God's word says about heaven as I should be, but I think I have the gist of it:  being with Jesus; everything restored to perfection; and better than I can imagine.

The question is, can I trust God's promise of my coming inheritance, or will I grasp now at too-swiftly-passing beach weeks, earthly luxuries, and inappropriate rest that is not my current calling?

Must I plan and execute a bucket list in the belief that these years are the best chance I have?

Or can I rejoice in the glimpse of paradise I get in times like this vacation, knowing that it's only a hint of what's to come--like peering through the tissue paper to almost make out what your birthday present is, even though you can't yet unwrap it, much less play with it?

And can I smile inwardly when the so tantalizingly close to perfect week isn't quite?  

Can I thank Jesus when I notice things about this world that could use improvement {gee, I wish my sunburn didn't itch in the middle of my back where I can't reach it; I'd go play in the water if I didn't have responsibility to care for children; it started thundering just when I got my swimsuit on}; knowing that He keeps me from accidentally falling in love with this world and settling for far less than He has for me?

God, give me a holy contentment with your strange providence over my life, and give me a holy discontentment with all the offerings of this world.