Tonight, in our bedtime reading–Laura Ingalls Wilder fare tonight–

“‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

Why, Mom? Why is there no place like home?

Because it’s where you belong, your special place where you always belong.

This isn’t my home, Mom.


This is my second home, Mom; but it isn’t my real home.

Oh…you mean that heaven is your real home and this is your second home?

Yes, Mom. Heaven is really my real home.

Oh child, five-year-young child, your spiritual vision is still only partly cloudy like a spring evening, not fogged over and shadowed like a January rain cloud. There are so many things I understand better than you. Sometimes I have wisdom deeper and stronger than yours, but how come you thought of heaven when Pa sang “there’s no place like home” and I thought of a stucco dwelling in the desert? Your heart sees clearer, the child-like faith that I rejoice to brush up against, hoping to be humbled and see with your vision.

“But we are citizens of heaven and are eagerly waiting for our Savior to come from there.

Our Lord Jesus Christ has power over everything, and he will make these

poor bodies of ours like his own glorious body” (Philippians 3:20-21).


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