There is a house I often pass when I run. It is a non-descript, one story brick home. It blends in with the other houses on the street in the quaint and quiet manner befitting middle-American suburbia. The hedges are trimmed, not ornately, but neatly. The roof needs mending, but is far from disrepair. The driveway's cracks hint at gradual, but graceful, aging. Beyond those details, however, I can describe little else. I can’t tell you the color of either the shutters or the trim. I don't know the house number and I can't recall if it has a garage. Is the drive asphalt or concrete – I don’t know. It is so plain – so gleefully ordinary – that, except for one distinct feature, I would not have given it a second glance.
Out in front, pulled by an unseen wind, waves a worn and formerly yellow flag with lettering that only hints at ever being red. Its satiny cloth flaps ever-so-slightly in the autumn breeze. While I watch, it falls without a puff of air to bolster it and slowly, hesitantly, rises again with a weary sigh of a hard day’s work as the light wind resumes. With each movement carrying with it the appearance of a Herculean effort, the banner shrugs its shoulders and quietly billows on. But, even with its hushed voice, this flag shouts a message to all who care to listen.
And, with my eyes, I listen.
I see the flag and hear the groans of the slowly growing heartache of the family inside the four walls. Immediately, I understand that this is no ordinary family. This is a family with firsthand knowledge of longsuffering. These people are acquainted with waiting, accustomed to wanting, anxious and worried. But, while they suffer in silence, with only the muted yellow banner to serve as the family spokesman, all who pass this way behold the lingering sting of loneliness. Like a routine loser, their poker face is substandard. The flag tips their hand. The slowly droning “pop…pop…pop” of the tattered edges gently whisper that the wait has been long. Their pain and pride are manifest.
Pain from the empty seat at the dinner table. Pride for the sacrifice.
Pain from the backbreaking burden of concern. Pride for the service.
I don't know them, but I know about them. They are a military family and, as their loved one wages a distant war, each member of this household engages in an inner-war of personal disquiet. Each one can attest to sleepless nights and restless days. Is it a son or daughter, cousin or nephew, father or wife who is absent with leave? I don't know. Are they missing an Airman, Sailor, Soldier, or Marine? No idea. All I know is that their longing is abundant as long as their family member is in short supply. The flag tells me as much.
It's message is simple, " 'Till they come home."
But, as I look upon this monument to a warrior, I can’t help but think of another partially empty house missing a host of combatants and bearing a similar banner. This house, though, is unlike the simple ranch in nearly every way. This house is anything but nondescript. It has more rooms that a downtown high-rise. The bushes appear to have been trimmed by DaVinci. The roof is in fine shape, but most people don’t even notice it as they are too busy gaping at the gilded gateway to look up and notice the roof. The sheer perfection of it is nothing less that glorious. It is majestic. It is simply supernatural.
But, the exterior is only the start, do you know who lives in this place? That information will tell you all you need to know. This is the Heavenly house of a doting Daddy – Abba's abode. The mansion of the Maker and manor of the Messiah. This, this is the “crib” of all “cribs” for the King of all kings. This is better than Graceland it is the Grace-land.
But, even as I picture the splendor of this dwelling and the majesty of its occupants, I find my mind's eye wandering to that one thing this magnificent palace in this magnificent place must have in common with that humble ranch on that humble street. The flag. Like the family in that one-story residence, the Father, Son, and Spirit have empty seats at their dinner table. Though many of those previously unoccupied have been filled by saints who have completed their tour of duty to the adulation of a glorious reception. Still, many remain vacant. Each vacancy represents a war weary participant entrenched in the daily conflict we call life. Still, we can be comforted as we pause each day to “put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, [we] may be able to stand [our] ground.” (Ephesians 6:13 NIV). “For [the Christian’s] struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 6:12 NIV).
But the hardship of a hard-fought battle is not always dramatic explosions and chaos. Certainly there are believers on the front lines of persecution and violence. However, many of us skirmish in monotony. We mêlée in the mundane. As we “do” life, it is often difficult for us to imagine our impact in the battle for the souls of men. We yearn for something bigger, something with meaning. We long for significance, for a life lived past the edges, for time spent coloring outside the lines. We want to be men and women consumed by a holy fire. Instead, as we wait, we wonder why the war goes on while we toil in mediocrity?
As Mordecai said to Esther, “who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14b NIV). And there it is; we are neither forgotten nor are we mere cogs in the mechanism of an uncountable army of the King. Dispensable and disposable. Rather, we, as believers in the redemptive grace of Jesus Christ, have been so redeemed. We are new and so are our assignments. Whether our participation is in the fray or the fringe, we are assigned a only one of a kind task. Each soldier is also an envoy with a unique pilgrimage, designed to carry a distinctive message of deliverance to those appointed by the Maker of Time and Space to occupy our company in given time and space. And that is our duty, our role. That is our privilege.
For our Father in his Heavenly home, despite our mission on His behalf, each absentee brings Him equal pain as He longs for our company in His presence. Like the picture provided by Jesus of the father waiting for his prodigal son to return from the far country, our Creator longs to see us crest the hill of Heaven. He misses walking and talking with each of us and, because of that, there is a banner waiving in Heaven, an indication of His yearning to be reunited with each us.
Though there is no decay in Heaven and moth and rust do not destroy, I would not be surprised if the celestial flag bore the same appearance of age as the other. (Matthew 6:19-20 NIV). Somehow it would not seem out of place if it were to heave under the burden of waiting and bear the tell-tale signs of longing. If the red letters had the tinge of a washed out pink, I would not question the truth of the perfection of Heaven. In fact, if our Father runs to His reckless and irresponsible children when they understand His grace, how much more will he welcome us as we wander home weary from a life of warring with our flesh and with the Enemy.
We can rest assured in the promise of our Lord, Jesus, who said with all authority, “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. You know the way to the place where I am going.” (John 14:2-4 NIV). And, I imagine that the first thing He did in His divine preparation was raise a flag to remember his warriors on the front lines, in the trenches, and even adrift in the seemingly commonplace.
Let us continue to bedevil the Devil with our steadfastness and rest on the promise of Jesus. Let us, like soldiers in a distant land or ambassadors to a far country, dream of the day when we can enter our Father’s house and watch as He lowers the flag and say as Jesus said to the church at Ephesus, “[y]ou have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary.” (Revelation 2:3).
