He has a place now. And place promises. He gives me a phone number, tells me I can call him. I write the address he recites like treasure, thinking of the gifts I couldn’t send these recent years as birthdays and Christmases rolled by. And as we talk I realize:
Place means I can go to him. I can see him. I can take him to his mother. And so we plan. Yes, the very next weekend we’ll come, we’ll meet, we’ll drive to the nursing home to visit his mother.
“That isn’t Hugh, is it?” When we saw him last, at my mother’s funeral in 2008, he was clean-shaven. Now a beard hides half his face.
“It IS!” I leap from the car and I cling to him tightly, tightly. “So good to see you!” I whisper, my eyes running wet onto his shoulder. I’m squeezing, checking for ribs under the winter coat, feeling for life, hanging on to life.
We could go anyplace.
3 If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also.
John 14:3 (NASB)