Letter 3: From His footstool to His throne
My dearest friend,
Last night was extremely difficult for you. I sensed your panic as the reality of you never seeing your loved one again sets in. Grief has bored its way so deep into the very core of your being. It has only been a few weeks but it feels like a lifetime of separation. As we wept through the night, my mind drifted to our younger days.
We were in our twenties then, young wives and new mums. We were hungry for the things of the spirit. We danced through those sweaty summer nights worshipping with ribbons and tambourines, making a joyful noise unto the Lord. Now we call those days the ‘tent days’, where there was a pop-up makeshift church erected in our neighbourhood. The smell of tarp and dust never bothered us. It was a simpler time, with no fancy pews or stage lighting, just pure worship and adoration poured out to our audience of one. We celebrated Christ and wept before Him. We longed for more and more of Him.
After the meetings, we could barely speak and were weak in the knees. You said to me, ‘Can you imagine what Heaven will be like?’ And as we hugged, you whispered in my ear, ‘I wish this time will never end.’
Praise and worship will always be our escape. We did not have much then, but we were carefree, with no limitations on how we should express our love towards God. We were radical and eccentric.
This got me thinking of what life might be like for your hubby in Heaven. In Revelation 7:9-12, we read “After these things I looked, and behold, a great multitude which no one could number, of all nations, tribes, peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!’ All the angels stood around the throne and the elders and the four living creatures, and fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying: ‘Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom, thanksgiving and honour and power and might be to our God forever and ever. Amen.’ ”
What a glorious sight! Heaven is overflowing with people from every race and every nationality, all who are praising God before His throne. I can only imagine what Heaven must sound like; the voices of millions of worshippers in harmony, the sound of harps and timbrels, an orchestra of continuous jubilation. Heaven, a place of endless worship with no agenda nor judgmental eyes. What pure excitement.
We learned from a young age that worship is the connection to God’s presence. Let your heart cry out from a deep and broken place. God is attracted to your brokenness. His eyes are fixed on you. I know it is hard right now to even lift a song, but worship is from a deep quiet place.
Acts 7:49 says “Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. What kind of house will you build for me? says the Lord. Or where will my resting place be?” Find comfort in knowing that as you worship God at His footstool here from the earth, your husband worships before God’s throne. What a beautiful spiritual connection.
Wait transparently before God. Worship Him even when the words fail you. Worship through silent spiritual connection, where your heart makes communion with God. I believe that this is when the Holy Spirit begins the healing process. As you lay before Him at His feet weeping and lamenting, God so divinely, like healing oil, will soothe the gaping wound in your heart. As you connect with God at His footstool, you will get a glimpse of what Heaven is like. Take comfort, my dearest, and dwell in Revelation 21:4 “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”
Pour your worship on Jesus’ feet like the woman we read of in Luke 7:36-50. She did not say much, she just wept. She washed His feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. She kissed and fragranced his feet with a perfume that cost her a year’s salary. She poured all of herself onto His feet. Let your pain be as spikenard, a costly perfume, bottled in your alabaster heart, broken before His feet, scattered into unrepairable pieces only to release a fragrance that will fill His throne room. From His footstool to His throne room, let your worship fragrance the heavens.
With all my heart,