These days, the skies around our farm are alive with action. All the little goslings have grown up, and are hard at work in flight school, taking lessons in formation and technique from their elders. They wheel around the barn, descending to the gentle hills in the hay field; they rise in great clouds and move off towards the corn fields. The echo of wings flapping against the surface of the lake is steady all day long as they practice syncing their watery takeoffs and landings over and over again. And all of this, of course, to the music of autumn, a grand symphony (or cacophony, some might say) of honking.
I love it.
But not just because the air is alive with action, but because it’s alive with anticipation.
They’re practicing for the big event, that great annual journey somewhere to the south. It always brings the favorite old gospel song to mind that was sung so appropriately at the memorial service this last week:
Some glad morning when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away.
To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.
I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away.
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away. (Albert E. Brumley)
It’s a beautiful picture of the end of life for one who belongs to Christ, isn’t it?
“And I say, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest…” (Psalm 55:6)
Rejoicing Hills 