An Asian graduate student who grew up in a bustling city said she never saw trees until she arrived in Pennsylvania (aptly meaning, “Penn’s Woods”). She boarded a bus at Pittsburgh airport headed to our rural college town and pressed her face against the glass, taking in the wild beauty of forested hillsides.

“There were trees the whole way from the airport to Indiana. And look where you live – trees everywhere!” she said when she joined us one year for Easter dinner.

Lately, I’ve been remembering a bus ride up to Jerusalem. My coworkers and I had been in Galilee, all green and lovely with the rolling sea and the scent of honeysuckle in the air. We’d also traveled through the bone-dry Judean desert, where Jesus fasted and was tempted by the evil one.

Then came Jerusalem. The Spirit brushed over us as our bus approached the Holy City. I felt the pull of history and geography as an unexpected yearning, a homing instinct deep in my spiritual DNA. Anticipation hovered as we sang “Sanctuary,” a new song for me:

“Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary, for you!” (Thompson & Scruggs)

There was a heaviness in the air in Jerusalem I’ve never felt elsewhere, not even in the DMZ. Christians were still allowed to enter the golden Dome of the Rock back then, and I reached my hand toward the rock where Abraham was ready to offer his son to God, if God demanded it. He didn’t, but later God’s own Son laid down His life on a nearby hill.

We removed our shoes before entering the ancient Al-Asqa Mosque, built on the Temple Mount above the only remaining bit of temple wall, sacred to Jews including some ancestors of mine.

Inside, I saw a glass wall cabinet containing a hand grenade and the words “Made in Saltsburg, Pennsylvania.” Many have died at the mosque over the thousand years since it was constructed; some hoped to incite a holy war at this, the third holiest place in Islam, but whoever entered with that hand-held instrument of terror made here in Indiana County didn’t get far.

It shook me to know how intertwined the stories of this ancient conflict are with my own. I had a friend who worked in that Saltsburg plant. We are more closely interconnected with life and death than we know.

That night, while friends were out, I remained alone in my Jerusalem hotel room, needing some quiet time. I prayed in bed in the semi-darkness, feeling the weight of ages suspended over the city. I rose at dawn and wandered around to the back of Seven Arches Hotel, aching over the broken lives entwined in that land. Through barbed wire, I heard a rooster crow and asked God to help me remain faithful through whatever trials I would face in coming years.

Although I’d heard about Jerusalem all my life, being there was as different as a faded sepia photograph is from a contemporary one, bursting with color. Vehicles crowded noisy streets; one rear license plate announced, “I’m a student driver” along the winding road leading up to the Holy City. I felt like a student too, immersed in this sacred place that seemed somehow familiar, like a dream from the distant past.

I wonder if Heaven will be like that.

When we arrive will we each feel like a tourist, a student, a newbie?

Or will the embrace of the Father’s holy love overtake every thought and quivering emotion, bringing us to our knees to sing: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty. . . !”

My twin sister noted that my Asian student’s story is similar to mine, both travelers in a far country. Her wonder at the beauty of trees foreshadows awakening on the other side of eternity. We’ve heard ideas about it, seen faint hints as we plod along, but until we arrive we have no idea what delights await us.

I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit I’m shaky about the stretch of road ahead, jaunting across the minefield of metastatic breast cancer. I’m trusting God in His grace grants me bright days to enjoy this green planet and precious people—our grandsons who are moving here arrived from New Zealand Friday night—knowing the day will come when the heavenly dimensions of love will far exceed all that presently keeps me earthbound.

Meanwhile, I have miles to go before I sleep. Most likely, you do, too.

All will be well.

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