He Knows Me

2I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband.

3And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.

4He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
(Revelation 21:2-4, NIV)

Ah, that sounds so good (even though I hear it Kirk Franklin's voice. Weird.) Sometimes in the press of earthly living, it is easy to forget the hope of heaven. In my first years of being a Christian, I thought of heaven often, longed for it, dreamed of it, even drew a detailed drawing of God's throne room in Revelation 4. Today, I think I will read that again: the sea of glass, the twenty-four elders, the heavenly refrain. "Holy, Holy, Holy the Lord God Almighty." It is good to remember all the wonder that Jesus left behind to win my life. It helps whenever I feel as I often do, misunderstood and out of place.

Yet, God knows me in all my quirky imperfection and tangled words. He requires no false humility or fake protraction from me. It is grace that He offers, lush and full, overflowing my cup at the table He has prepared me. The seat is one I do not deserve, cannot earn, but I climb it's golden rungs and crawl into it anyway. How can I not? He has bidden me, this Lover of my soul, creator of heaven and earth, to come.

And so I sit, slurping the cup of fellowship so unlike the bitterness He drank of. I try to mind my manners, but He reminds me that this is not the place. Or the time. This is the table for the starving, for those who thirst past the consideration of others, for blind men who cry out from roadsides, for women who dare to touch the hem of a stranger's garment . . .

As I think of heaven, of my inheritance, I am too overwhelmed to be appropriate, to be humble, to be quiet. I cry out today with a loud voice, in my need, in my pain,"Lord Jesus, come quickly! Help me. I am empty. Nothing."

And He who is everything, who holds the very atoms together by His word, pours His blood into my goblet, His words into my mouth. I try to sip slowly, but my need, it is too great. The time, it is too short.

I must go now. There is a stain upon my dress.

Someone might think I've troubled the Master.