As a boy I was taught that at the end of my earthly life I would stand before God who would then ask, "Why should I let you into my heaven?" There was a scripted answer in the Baptist catechism that I memorized and could quote seamlessly. I believed God would let me in. I still

believe God will welcome me, but that moment will look differently than I thought as a boy. As a man, I believe there is a beauty to our lives that becomes overgrown with all sorts of things that feel important at the time but in actuality are not. At points before the end of

our earthly lives, there are moments when we are stopped in our tracks and invited to turn back toward that beauty, what the old Book describes as becoming like little children. If we choose, we begin the work of cutting away the overgrowth that has overshadowed our original

brilliance. Then, at the end of our lives, which is also, I believe, the beginning, God won't so much ask a question as stare carefully to see if we are recognizable, if we resemble what he knit together in the wombs of our dear mothers. To have engaged in the difficult splendor

of shucking off what the world wanted us to become and instead becoming what God had in mind is holy work, maybe the work of a lifetime, a work wedded with grace. To have God look at me on that day and see me, the real me (a phrase I fear we toss too casually), will elicit

our Father's joy and a response I learned as a boy and cling to still: "Well done. Welcome home." Amen.