My Father’s House

Posted on by Diana Brandmeyer

Welcome back Staci Stallings! 
My Father’s House
Years ago my Saturday nights were planned long before we ever got to Friday.  My friends and I would go to church, go out to eat with my parents and then go to my house for a long night of 
 whatever the game of the season was.  We would stay up long into the night playing Michigan Rummy, Pictionary, Guesstures, or Scattergories.  More than once a worried parent called to check up on a child and make sure they were at my folk’s place and not up town running around.  They were always there around that kitchen table laughing and having a great time.
 
I don’t really remember how the tradition got started, or who the first friends I invited over were.  However, over the years there were a long line of them.  Theresa. Elaine. Kirsten. Lorelea. Michael. Damian. Mike. Eventually my younger sister’s friends joined us, and there were very few Saturday nights that our house wasn’t an all-out party.
Now mind you, my parents were always there.  In fact, my mom seldom went to bed before everyone left as she was often the last challenger standing no matter what the game was.  My dad, on the other hand, had to be up at 5 a.m. on Sunday morning to go out and milk cows.  More than once, he rounded the corner, one eye half-opened to stare at us and ask what we were still doing awake.
We had a lot of good, honest fun in that house, and my friends never balked at going there instead of driving around looking for trouble.  It was simply more fun than anything else we could be doing.
Recently I’ve been looking at my life and realizing that one of my goals is to point as many people to Heaven as I can through my writing and through my life.  For awhile it bothered me that maybe I was saying in that goal that I thought I was the one through which they were going to get to Heaven.  Of course that wasn’t my intent, but there was a nagging thought that maybe that’s how it would be interpreted.
It didn’t take a genius, but it did take some soul-searching, to realize where that thought came from—Satan, the number one instigator of doubts of all time.  Max Lucado once said that “Satan doesn’t want to convince us, he just wants to confuse us,” and that was certainly true in this case.
It wasn’t until I thought back to my high school years and how much fun we had at my parents’ house that I finally put all the doubts aside.  You see, I don’t think I’m the reason others end up going to Heaven—that is their choice and their business. However, I amthe one who can invite them to come with me to my Father’s house.  I figure we’ll all be better off in Heaven than out on the streets somewhere, so once again, my plan is to invite as many people as I can to join me for a joyous time in my Father’s house.  It worked once, I hope it works again.
Copyright, Staci Stallings 2004
Staci Stallings, the author of this article, is a Contemporary Christian author and the founder of Grace & Faith Author Connection. Check out Staci’s brand new release…
Houston firefighter, Jeff Taylor is a fireman’s fireman. No situation is too dangerous to keep him sidelined if lives are on the line. However, when control freak Lisa Matheson falls for him, she quickly realizes she can’t control Jeff or the death wish he seems to have…
To Protect & Serve
The Courage Series, Book 1

To save other’s lives, they will risk their own
Buy it on Barnes & Noble Nook:
“To Protect and Serve will hold you prisoner to its pages until the final one is turned. Prepare to cry, laugh, wish, love and maybe even cry again as you become enveloped in the hopes and feelings of Lisa and Jeff.”
-Cindy Reiger

9 thoughts on “My Father’s House”

  2. Love this story. An excellent way to put it. I figure te more friends I gain on earth, the bigger the welcoming party in heaven.

    Reply

  3. Staci and Diana, what an awesome post. I enjoyed it so much it took me back to long game night at my house. Thanks for reminding me that simple is sometimes better!

    Reply

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.