JavaScript is disabled in your web browser or browser is too old to support JavaScript. Today almost all web pages contain JavaScript, a scripting programming language that runs on visitor's web browser. It makes web pages functional for specific purposes and if disabled for some reason, the content or the functionality of the web page can be limited or unavailable.
Vieraskieliset / In-english

Blog: Do you have a longing?

Vieraskieliset / In-english
14.8.2020 6.40

Juttua muokattu:

24.7. 11:45
2020072411452820200814064000

– Do you have a lon­ging for so­met­hing?

She looks di­rect­ly at me, but then her gaze shifts to the win­dow and the lar­ge as­pen trees and dark green spru­ces that grow out­si­de.

I need a mo­ment to think about what I am lon­ging for, but my friend con­ti­nu­es to speak.

She says she mis­ses the hou­se that her hus­band built for their fa­mi­ly. And the yard with a swing in the shade of a ro­wan tree and blos­so­ming pe­ren­ni­als by the wall. She al­so mis­ses the well that gave them wa­ter at first and then the wa­ter pipe that brought the wa­ter in­to the hou­se. They wor­ked hard – it was a good life. There was a bird fee­der out­si­de the win­dow and many birds. So­me­ti­mes they even saw a squir­rel there.

– Oh, why did I have to move out of that hou­se? I wish I were still there.

As we con­ti­nue our con­ver­sa­ti­on, I ask her how she would ma­na­ge to live there now. The hard-wor­king hus­band that built the hou­se has al­re­a­dy pas­sed away. She sighs. She ad­mits that ac­tu­al­ly she could not live there any lon­ger. She is al­so lo­ne­so­me for her hus­band.

– But do you ever long for anyt­hing? Where would you like to be? she asks.

I tell her that my lon­ging is most poig­nant in the spring, when white wood ane­mo­nes are in bloom. I re­mem­ber the springs of my child­hood, when fields were white with wood ane­mo­nes. This is why I have plan­ted wood ane­mo­nes on my yard whe­ne­ver I have found a few of them in the cold and in­fer­ti­le Kai­nuu re­gi­on. They have grown well on my yard, ho­we­ver.

But I point out that if I went to my child­hood home now, it would not be the same any more. When I long for my old home, I ac­tu­al­ly al­so long for the time I spent there as a child. That time is now part of my me­mo­ries.

I know I am so­me­ti­mes al­so lo­ne­so­me for dear pe­op­le who have pas­sed away. And ot­her pe­op­le whose paths have cros­sed mine in life. I may sud­den­ly feel a bur­ning de­si­re to see them again. But those mo­ments are on­ly short flash­backs. They are not bur­den for me.

– I long to be in the he­a­ven­ly home, my friend sighs.

Re­mi­nis­cing about her life again, she says:

– It is good I did not die yo­ung, as I did not know anyt­hing about this faith. I have re­cei­ved a great gift.

Even la­ter, while vi­si­ting to­get­her, our con­ver­sa­ti­ons touc­hed on the to­pic of lon­ging and lo­ne­so­me­ness. Gra­du­al­ly her strength di­mi­nis­hed. As her me­mo­ry fa­ded, she for­got about her dear home and the life of hard work. The on­ly thing left was her lon­ging for he­a­ven.

Then came the day when I sat by her bed for the last time. Now she need not long any more.

We may long for a place, a time in his­to­ry, dear pe­op­le. Or we may on­ly have an un­de­fi­ned sen­se of lon­ging. I think that is im­por­tant, too. Would life be so­me­how emp­tier, de­void of fee­ling, if we did not long for anyt­hing?

How deep must be the lon­ging of those who have had to le­a­ve their home count­ry or re­gi­on and move in­to unk­nown con­di­ti­ons?

I have of­ten thought that it would be ea­sy in this busy, bust­ling eve­ry­day life to for­get about my true des­ti­na­ti­on. I know, of cour­se, that I can use the days I have been gi­ven to do my tem­po­ral du­ties. Still, I of­ten al­so pau­se to think if I feel a lon­ging for he­a­ven. That ma­kes me want to meet those who are dear to me and to ex­pe­rien­ce si­tu­a­ti­ons that re­mind me of he­a­ven.

I re­mem­ber how, as yo­ung pe­op­le, we used to sing a lot af­ter ser­vi­ces. ”My he­art is ever lon­ging to re­ach that pe­a­ce­ful home" was es­pe­ci­al­ly dear to me. I do not know why. As far as I re­mem­ber, that song was not con­nec­ted to any spe­ci­al ex­pe­rien­ce ex­cept the great joy of sin­ging. My life at the time was hap­py and full of ho­pes and dre­ams for the fu­tu­re, but that did not di­mi­nish my de­si­re to sing about the lon­ging for he­a­ven. La­ter, at ti­mes of tri­als, the words of that song have re­al­ly come to life.

At ser­vi­ces I have no­ti­ced that even those who are yo­ung to­day of­ten sing songs about he­a­ven and the lon­ging for he­a­ven. In our hec­tic life we still have an in­ter­nal de­si­re for so­met­hing so­lid and stab­le. Sin­ging brings pe­a­ce to a rest­less mind. The lon­ging for he­a­ven ma­kes us look for­ward.

Text: Ai­li Pa­sa­nen

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

You will find the ori­gi­nal blog post here.

21.11.2024

Minä odotan Herraa kuin vartijat aamua, hartaammin kuin vartijat aamua. Ps. 130:6

Viikon kysymys