There is a profound delight that comes with travel. It may not be so for the determined uninitiate, that contented homebody who desires no experience beyond the borders of their familiar hamlet, but as long as there are reasonable assurances that we will soon be home again, most of us can appreciate a temporary change in scenery. It stretches the corners of our world further, and predictably leaves us feeling that much smaller and more insignificant. But along with that necessary correction in perspective comes a truer vision of reality.
If you have ever looked at Vermeer’s Girl Reading a Letter, it is that same instant of awed perception that we can detect in her posture and expression. As her mind’s eye fills trustingly with the wonders about which her husband (for it could be no other) has written to her, her mind at that moment is striving with the mighty thought of a vastness it has never tried to comprehend before. She does not sit to read as so often she has done before, but stands open-mouthed and quiet before the anointing of a sun that passes every day above the oceans and continents she has only ever seen on the tapestry in her room. So many things are yet in store for her: reunion with her husband, childbirth, perhaps someday venturing out into the universe of which she has only just caught a glimpse, another summer, another winter, old age, and death, the greatest doorway of all. But in this moment, with her rosary on the table before her and the cherished letter clutched tightly in her hands, there can be no more pregnant portal in her life.
It can be argued that after reading her letter, the girl had attained even less actual experience of the world at large than I did after my week’s trip to Columbus, Ohio – and that is very true – but in both situations we looked out of our safe haven (mine a pickup crammed with suitcase, briefcase, and comforting heaps of books on construction management) into a landscape full of story and vigor, and the sight awoke something within us that had long been dormant.
That something for me was the idea of bequeathment. I am not sure that is really a word, but then I am even less sure about the interpretation of the painting I gave above, and will submit to reproof most willingly when it is given by someone who actually knows what they are talking about with regard to the arts and letters. But never having been one to be deterred by my own ignorance, I will push on. As I drove eight hundred miles through the West Virginia and Ohio farmland, I drank in houses and farms and driveways and orchards and swingsets and front porches. I saw people moving around, going about their work and play, waving to each other down the gravel access roads, living their lives out in the very same rhythm that is found in my own.
And I could not but wonder: what is the purpose of the progression? We learn a trade and practice it, so that we can make it to retirement. We meet that heart which beats closest to ours and take their hand in holy matrimony, knowing all too well that no matter how chaste and beautiful our unity, our own vows tell us we will someday be parted. We have children and they grow up and leave home. We build our own house and pour into it our very personality and all the pictures we have imagined while we lived in that little apartment for so long: the deck facing east for that first cup of coffee in the morning, the quiet breakfast nook, the decorations at Thanksgiving and Christmas, the solitary garden bench where so many pages were turned, the welcoming yellow light burning above the front porch swing in the summer. What is it all for? In a few blinks of an eye we will pass into the ages, and what will become then of everything we cherished?
It seems to me that, in this context, meaning in life ought to be realized in a Biblical view of enjoyment. We know from Ecclesiastes that pleasure for the godly is to be found in tasting the nectar of the honeysuckle of life, in pronouncing that nectar sweet, and in having the willingness to watch it fall away from our hands when its time is over. And we know that this freedom is not to be found in some Epicurean formula of optimized appreciation, but rather in a proper view of the Giver. God sends rain on the just and the unjust, but the difference is that when it is gone and the earth withers under their feet, the wicked curse his name and the righteous utter the blessed Nomen Domini benedictum of Job.
But though God expects us to receive his blessings with an open hand, that does not mean the story stops there. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, are we not of all people most to be pitied? If we taste the milk and honey of the Promised Land and leave no legacy behind us, how can we claim that ours is the God of the living and not of the dead? The very nature of things tells us that a farmer’s fondest dream is the thought of the homestead he will leave to his son, and the dowry he will bestow on his daughter.
At this point I am interrupted by the accusing finger of my theological conscience. Am I in taking this direction trying to consign a significant portion of the Kingdom to inherent futility? What of those Christians who are unmarried and who have no children? Are they simply missing out because they cannot pass their possessions on to their family?
One Christmas my dad gave me one of the most precious gifts I have ever received. Because he chose the path of a Bible scholar I did not inherit a farm, but that year he gave me a large box covered with wrapping paper. On the card it said: “Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I give thee.” In the box was a copy of each one of the several dozen books he has written over the years, encompassing the corpus of his life’s work. It was a kingly gift, and I will always treasure it; but note that it was only one of the most precious gifts in my life, not the most precious. In 1991 Christ Jesus gave me the free gift of eternal life, and if you were to ask my dad which of the two gifts was the greatest, I have no doubt of his answer. Because I am his son Dad gave me everything he could in this life, but when it came to the thing most needful he could not give it to me: the best he could do was point me in the right direction.
That is a legacy that any follower of Jesus may lay hold of, indeed that we must lay hold of. It does not matter whether you have children, or whether you have amassed houses and lands, or whether you have anything at all to put in your will. If you have received grace from the hand of God, and you can open your mouth and say to someone you love, “God did this for me”, you have in your heart the greatest inheritance any human could ever give another. This inheritance is what St. Paul had to his name after a life marked by learned ignorance, spiteful rebellion, agonizing defeat, gentle restoration, humble obedience, grievous suffering, overflowing joy, and a lasting glimpse of glory. He took all these things and offered them up as a fragrant sacrifice for the benefit of two thousand years of Christendom, with these words:
For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, “This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way also he took the cup, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
No description of the countryside, be it ever so engaging, could put that flush in the girl’s cheeks. It was solely because her husband wrote it that she was caught up so irresistibly in the picture he sketched for her. And it is our love of Jesus that makes our hearts yearn for that heavenly country which is to be our everlasting home. As you are taken up in the delight of that vision, make it your life’s ambition to leave it as your greatest heritage for those you love.
JV
Author: Jeremy Vogan
My name is Jeremy Vogan. I live in Staunton, VA with my wife and four kids. I love to write, and seek to honestly explore the intellectual and emotional implications of following Jesus as a deeply broken person in a twisted, cruel world that is full of veiled beauty and meaning. Writing is part of how I faithfully look for Jesus Christ to someday make all things new. I'd enjoy hearing your feedback! JV