We’re parked at the end of our country lane, the girls and I. The engine idles as we wait for yellow bus #44 to make its last stop of the school year here on this farm.
The girls are clutching lilacs, plucked gifts for favorite teachers. We all feel alive with the hope of a brand new day — this last day of school — and the oldest girl says she’s glad it’s not over yet.
“School?” I ask, surprised.
“No,” she says. “The world. I’m glad the world didn’t end yet. That kind of freaked me out.”
She heard the news about Harold Camping and his doomsday predictions that Judgment Day would come May 21. That was four days ago, but here we are — still tethered to this celestial ball, parked at the end of a driveway and breathing in the intoxicating aroma of lilacs and spring.
“No one knows the day or the hour,” I tell the girls. “Not even Jesus. Only the Father knows.”
Lydia says she knows why Harold Camping made his prediction. “He just wanted to get famous. And now he says it’s October 21 so he can get more famous.”
Maybe, I shrug. I don’t know Mr. Camping’s motives. But I do know a teaching moment when I see one. I tell the girls that this is a good reminder to be watchful and to treat each day as a gift from God and as an opportunity to do things for His glory.
Lydia chimes in again, saying that the difference between Earth and Heaven will be like Dorothy moving from black-and-white Kansas to technicolor Munchkinland. She says there will be colors we don’t even know exist, and I think she’s right.
We look down the road, through the morning drizzle, for the bus to come cresting over the hill.
I don’t tell the girls what I’m thinking as we sit at the end of the driveway. I’m thinking this: I used to live life afraid.
I used to be scared of the end of the world. I liked the comfort of my black-and-white Kansas-esque life. I was annoyed when people prayed for His return, because I thought people who prayed that kind of thing were downright kooky.
But these days? I’ll be thrilled to watch my Savior return. Go ahead. Call my kooky. I can take it.
And really, it does sounds crazy. My whole faith sounds crazy. God decides to comes to Earth as a baby, born to a virgin. He’s birthed in a barn. He lives like a homeless transient, makes friends with outcasts. He assembles a ragtag group of followers, most of whom abandon him when things get rough. Then he willingly dies on an executioner’s cross to save us from our sins. Three days later, despite a most horrific death, Jesus rises in bodily form, walks the Earth for a few weeks, and then rises up to Heaven to sit at the right hand of God.
Do I really believe all that? Me, a woman who has a college degree, who graduated with Honors, who has the ability to scientically reason and separate logic from fairy tale?
You better believe, I believe it. I’m staking my whole life on it.
Let me say it here in really big letters: I believe.
And I don’t know the hour. But I do know the Savior. Call me a fool, if you want, but I’ll be a fool for Christ any day. And it’s changing how I live every day — including this day, where you see me and the girls at the end of the driveway.
And yeah, I know it might sound crazy. But I believe that someday He’s coming for me. I don’t just believe. I know.
We watch. We wait. Yellow bus #44 comes up over the hill, just like we knew it would.
Ann Voskamp invites us to write about how we’re living life in the Light of the Resurrection. Me? I’m living it for His glory, until He comes again.