Last night I dreamt we returned home from a vacation to find our possessions edited by burglars. I was being escorted through each room by an investigator, a kind young woman in a smart green suit, to determine exactly what had been stolen.
It was like a hateful joke that became more pointed as it progressed, for in every newly vacant spot flickered a spectre of some possession that I had held quite dear: an inherited silver tea service monogrammed with an ornate "B", a child's painting, an old crystal vase, all my CDs... the insult grew with each room inspected. But somehow I felt a deep calm.
Then I discovered my jewelry box was gone... and with it all the jewelry given to me by my parents, my husband, my children, the long-gone matriarchs of the family tree, and my collection of artisan jewelry received from a beloved, artsy friend over the course of two decades of birthdays. It was a treasure chest worth more in memories than in monetary value.
The inspector was watching me closely now, perhaps from fear that I would fall apart or even faint. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied quietly.
"How can you be so calm?" she asked.
And the dream ended with my answer:
"Because it won't affect the resurrection."
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Thank you, Bro. Mike, for your wonderful sermon Wednesday night on Isaiah 40, and for teaching us to have an eternal perspective on temporal loss, on every worry and heartache: "It won't affect the resurrection." Wonderful, and a timely balm for my bruised and loss-weary heart.