Not because you're certain what will walk through it, but because you're done pretending you don't want anything too. Maybe God is not finished writing the word family over your life. And maybe for those of us who follow Christ, even this hope points towards something larger still. Every earthly house eventually changes. Children move away.
Loved ones pass on before us. Chairs empty out one by one the way they emptied out at Orson's table for 30 long years. No house we build here will stay exactly as we want it forever. But Jesus once told his disciples on the night before he faced the cross himself. In my father's house are many mansions.
I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself. He died, he rose again, and he is coming back. For those who belong to him, no gate closes forever, and no separation gets the final word.
Lord Jesus, we bring you the widows and the widowers tonight. The ones sitting at tables built for more people than are left to fill them. We bring you the fatherless children, the parents whose grown sons and daughters live too far away to visit as often as their hearts ache for. We bring you the lonely, the ones who have quietly decided that needing anyone again is too dangerous a risk to take.
Help them receive help without losing their dignity. Help them find the courage to open whatever gate they've kept closed. Help them notice the lonely person standing just outside their own life. Waiting the way Miriam once waited, hoping the way Orson once hoped.
Remind every person watching tonight that they still have something to give and someone still needs to receive it. And above all, Lord, keep our hope anchored not in any house we build here, but in the place you are preparing for us and in the promise that you are coming again. In your name we pray. Amen.