Ashamed…Will I be welcome in heaven?

So he got up and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion for him, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. Luke 15:20 NASB (emphasis mine)

I wish.

The emotion that welled up in my heart wasn’t elation or hope, but reluctance. What made me feel that way? A painting of a girl bear hugging Jesus at their first meeting in heaven. She clamped her arms around His neck and laughed with abandonment. Perfect love. Perfect joy.

I wish.

Isn’t every believer looking forward to meeting Jesus? To be honest, I’ve been hesitant, nervous. There’s me, circling the edge of the crowd, avoiding Jesus’s eyes, just out of reach. Ashamed.

My mind tells me that Jesus loves me enough to die for me. The Bible tells me so, as the song goes. But my heart just can’t bear the thought of standing before the Holy One, the Messiah, knowing He can see all the bad things I’ve ever done. How many times I failed Him. Shame.

Jesus forgave me, but did He forget?

Related: Is God out to get me because I’ve done wrong? The Bible’s surprising answer

This cautiousness isn’t new for me. When I was a kid, I dreaded the rapture. All believers, including yours truly, would fly to heaven totally naked where my sins would be displayed like movie credits on a colossal projection screen. All my elementary school bullies and friends (and crushes) would see. Stadium seating provided.

So why should Jesus welcome me with enthusiasm? Shouldn’t He see me in heaven and say “Oh…hey…it’s you. Ummmm…welcome? The food’s over there and this guy can show you around. Can we catch up later?” A lukewarm welcome is what I deserve.

Can you relate?

We all know what it’s like to feel dirty, less than, last in line, unwanted, undeserving. Not as innocent victims, but as a perpetrator of our own sin. And when we were totally guilty, no-hope prisoners, Jesus stepped in. Repented, paid for and forgiven – but not forgotten. At least not forgotten in our own minds.

This scenario rolled around in my mind as I drove to Target. How could I feel such perfect joy when I meet Jesus since He knows the kind of person I was (and sometimes become again)?

Then a thought from the Holy Spirit popped into my mind: “Is that how you feel about YOUR kids?”

My heart clenched.

When I’m reunited with my kids, all I want to see are big smiles and little arms around my neck. Do I think about the boy I put in timeout six times in three hours? Or the toddler who yelled “No!” when I told him to come downstairs?

Just like the blinding light of the sun banishes all darkness, my heart feels only love for the joy of being reunited with my children.

You are God’s child. I am God’s child.

When God forgives us, He balls up the list of accusations against us and throws it in the trash. Don’t dig through the trash and pull it out.

We will be welcomed with the joy of a father scooping up his little ones. Your sins are not more valuable than you.

A paradigm shift occurred in the Target parking lot. If a sinful, sometimes silly, certainly saved mom from Southern Maryland can throw open her arms for her two boys, how much more will Jesus beam with delight to see us one day? Now when I worry about meeting Jesus face to face, I play a new story in my mind.

Let me share it with you:

Our car swooped over the shallow hill where we’d better do the speed limit or get a ticket from the not-too-busy local police. But we were ready. Our hair was up in a side ponytail, firmly fixed with a scrunchie. Our jeans ended just high enough to show off rolled-down socks like sausage bracelets around our ankles. Our thumbs hovered over the seat belt release button. It was time.

We rolled into the driveway of our grandparents’ American foursquare. First one into grandpa’s arms wins! Grandpa Swiger never waited for us to scramble to the door – he always met us on the porch. Maybe he was impatient for a hug, too.

Grandpa was a mountain of a man with a giant heart. He had more grandchildren than a hoarding squirrel had acorns, but he loved each one of us like we were the first and only. He served us ice cream in mixing bowls (portion control was not his strong suit) and waited until our hair was perfectly coiffed for church before rubbing his bear paw hand over our heads and cooing “lovey, lovey.” We always bemoaned our ruined hair, but we secretly loved it. “She’s supposed to go to bed,” said an aunt as a pint-sized girl led grandpa toward the tire swing. “But she wants to!” was his bewildered response (“no” also not his strong suit). We all hurtled through the air on the tire swing in the too-small front yard. The bear-man never seemed tired. Most of the time we missed the tree, sometimes not. Then one day our butts couldn’t squeeze into the narrow tire and nervous moms and grandma breathed a sigh of relief.

When I want a picture of meeting Jesus, this is the memory I draw upon. Welcome, wanted, wonderful joy.

Now it’s your turn: think of your happiest childhood memory. Can you think of a time when you were bear-hugged, knew you were loved, and without-a-doubt wanted? Write it down. Play this story in your mind whenever the Enemy tries to convince you that you’re anything but welcome and wanted.