If you had a guest coming to your house, and you knew he was sure to come, and you also understood the importance of his arrival, you would get your house in order. That’s death. He’s coming. Maybe he’s coming in the night, maybe during the day, maybe he’s arriving in a plane crash, or an earthquake, or a flood, maybe its cancer, or a gunshot, or an accident, maybe it’s an air bubble that made its way to your brain. There are so many ways he can arrive and he visits different people at different times, but that’s not the point. The point is this, for me, I want, that when death knocks on my door, I’ll say, “Welcome! I’ve been expecting you.”
Then he’ll say, “Do you have any last words?”
“Nope. I’ve said and written everything I was meant to.”
“What about all your unfinished drafts?”
“I guess they’re meant to stay drafts.”
“Is there anything you want to tell anyone?”
“They all know without a doubt that I love them.”
“Is there any last thing you want to do before we go?”
“Hurry up and take me. I want to see His face.”
Where does a man as sinful as me draw this confidence? From a savior as perfectly loving as He is.
If you’re wandering as a stranger for so long and someone arrives to take you home, wouldn’t you welcome his appearance?