My Son Brought Them Home

We had just moved to Georgia from Texas, and our sons were adjusting to the move by playing football for their new high school.  It was summertime, and the boys were attending mandatory two-a-days, or two intense practices daily.  We lived within walking distance from the high school, and both boys were adjusting to the heat and high humidity of Georgia summers. 

I had gone to the grocery store that morning, shopping for the month, I thought, making good use of coupons and buy-one-get-one-free sales.  I had made it home just before lunch and was expecting the boys to be home to quickly eat and rest before heading back to the school for the afternoon practice.  Lunch hour came and went, and I assumed the boys had gone to lunch with their friends. 

About two o’clock in the afternoon, I heard a knock at the front door.  As I opened the door, I was surprised to see dozens of boys standing at the door:  Tall boys, short boys, thin boys, muscular boys, black boys and white boys.  The only thing they had in common was a strong smell of perspiration.  Caught off-guard, I suddenly heard a voice from the back of the pack:  “Mom, the coach kept us too late to go get lunch, and I told the team they could come over here to eat.  Is that okay?”  Our older son, always generous, positioned himself to hear my response, as if it could be anything other than, “Sure, Son.  Y’all come on in.”

I went to the kitchen, grateful that I had just bought groceries, and began an assembly line, preparing sandwiches, cold drinks, and chips, serving an endless line of soon-to-be young men.  I have no idea how many there were of them because they just kept going to the end of the line for more.  After all, they were growing boys, and they had been working hard for hours.  As they took their plates, each of them offered their thanks and appreciation for lunch, eating every bite and cleaning up after themselves before they relaxed for a few moments before heading back out into the summer heat.  Some napped on the floor, while others watched a little television or chatted for awhile.  I cleaned up the crumbs from the kitchen, wondering at the mass of guys in our home.

Finally, as the clock ticked toward the afternoon session, the boys began, reluctantly, to offer their thanks once more, moaning and groaning about all of the hitting, passing, and kicking they would be doing that afternoon, and headed out the door.  As suddenly as they had come, they were all gone, and I began to walk through the house, amazed at what had just happened.

All of these boys whom I had never seen before had just come into my home, had enjoyed full access to everything in my home, had experienced the hospitality of my home, and were welcome back in my home for one reason:  My son brought them home.

I was struck by the picture of my personal relationship with the Lord God.  Years ago, when I was six, the Holy Spirit of God moved on my heart and the Son of God knocked at the door of my heart.  I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, and He took me into the presence of God the Father, as He opened the doors of heaven.  I pictured Him saying, as He took me into the Holy of Holies, “Father, it’s alright.  She’s with Me.”  Now, because of that personal relationship, according to Hebrews 4:16, I have full access to come boldly before the throne of grace, obtaining mercy and grace in my time of need.  I am welcome in the house of my Father, as He dwells within the house of my heart.

In John 14:6, Jesus Himself stated:  I am the way, the truth, and the life.  No man comes to the Father but by Me.  Has the Son ever brought you home to the Father?

© 2010 Gerry Sisk

(02/24/10)