Remembering the Metaphor -- Part 2 (of who knows how many)

Part one here.______________

When Sosi was only months old, her parents crossed and ocean to find her. Her father, a man I know well, itched with anticipation for months, couldn’t scratch enough to cure it. “My daughter is in another country,” he begged me to understand. I said I could, but truth is, it was his daughter. She was not some lost coin or lamb. She was beautiful and she had a name. “A name,” he pleaded.

On the night of Sosi’s homecoming, our boys wore pajama pants and matching shirts made by Sosi’s parents. We explained to them that Sosi’s skin would be darker than her parents’ because she was from another country. They had flown across the globe to bring her home.

“Is Ethiopia in Africa, Daddy?” Isaac already understood the concept of worlds away, other continents. “Yes,” I told him.

“Her skin will be soft and beautiful, won’t it, Daddy? She’ll look like the people you visited in Africa, won’t she?”

“Maybe a little,” I said.

We walked into the airport lobby as a family and were greeted by close to one-hundred others who had gathered to meet Sosi for the first time. We assembled like desperate saints, telling stories to fill anticipation. Staring at the escalator that led down from the main concourse—the only concourse in our regional airport—it was our turn to itch, to long for the first glimpse. Saints are selfish that way.

And then they appeared. She looked down from the top of the escalator as she descended toward us, timid and held close to her Daddy’s chest. His itch was gone, you could see that in his smile. Scott reached from behind me, caught me unexpectedly by the shoulder and pulled me close to his towering frame. “This was ordained before the foundations of the earth,” he said. “She is home now.” He turned me loose and half-jogged to greet his new sister.

I was left contemplating this tangible expression of true religion, dumb-founded by the embodiment of the meta-narrative.

Thanks be to God.