The Passport stamp

American_Passport

Last week The Mister and I flew to Canada. In my usual OCD style, I checked, rechecked and double checked my backpack for my passport.  Ever patient, The Mister calmly allowed me to comfort myself with the crazy rechecking that comes with loving an anxious woman like myself.  When he had enough he gave me a look that said, ” Don’t ask me to check on these passports again.” but all he said was “Alright now.” God bless that man.

The funny thing about a passport is that a tiny little book will make or break your vacation. That navy-blue pocket sized book is your ticket to great adventures, and in our case, it took us on an epic vacation complete with glaciers,  brown bears and snow capped mountains. My greatest fear last Thursday morning was dropping that little blue book out of my backpack  and being stuck in Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson airport while the rest of my family went ahead without me. I was under no grand illusions that The Mister was going to wait for me. If I can manage to get to Kenya and back, I’m sure he had no problem letting me catch up to him in Alaska.

So we wait our turn to board the plane and I lose myself in thought, all the while tracing the edges of the passport in my hands to reassure myself I have everything I need to get through….everything I need. We get through without a hitch. The border guard, a tiny blond girl with smiling dimples and a chirpy voice stamps my passport and welcomes me to Canada. There was no need to worry after all.

There is a greater passing through that is coming. One day, I stand on the border of here and there, earth and eternal.  I fumble in my pockets and pull out a well worn library card that I hold up with my name stamped on the front.  Maybe He knows the books I’ve read and all the lessons I both taught and learned. I tell Him of the countless Sunday Schools and Old Testament Survey classes I have sat in. I can explain the minor prophets roles and the dispensations….. but….it’s not a passport.

I pull out my nursing license. It clearly states I have been licensed to practice nursing, a ministry in itself, in the state of Georgia. I have held hands of the dying, walked floors with the hurting and Lord knows seen my share of pain…but….. it’s not a passport.

Finally I dig through my wallet and wave my drivers license. This has to be enough, it has every piece of information that any border guard could want.  And as if to prove the point, I recite every bit to Him….where I live, what I have done, the churches I have attended….but….its no passport. Just like a worthless drivers license my goodness means little, actually nothing.

And then the voice of The Mister reminds me that my passport is in the pocket of my backpack. I checked enough times I should have remembered.  I pull out the little blue book with it stamped up pages and hand it over to The One Who gently opens the tiny book. “Ahh yes this is what I am looking for”, He says as He find the center of the tiny book. He opens it with a hand that turns to expose a  nail shaped scar in the center of His palm.  The center of my passport has been stamped with a blood signature. He turns every page and finds that the entire book is covered in the most beautiful scarlet color. Front to back, every page has been colored and covered and this…..this is my passport…..and it is enough.

“Welcome home Child” He says and I pass through the gate, while the worthless documents I thought would secure citizenship scatter in the wind of heavens breeze.

I’m home…..

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