I’ve been thinking lately about a question that Jesus answers in one of His most famous parables:

What kind of God is waiting for us?

It’s a question that seems especially important in a world where many people are suspicious of religion, skeptical of churches, and uncertain what they believe about God.

As I’ve pondered that question, my mind has wandered back to childhood.

At my grandmother Nanny’s house, I would stand on the porch bathed in the glow of a yellow bug light and watch as the inner door opened. Light would stream through the slats of the old wooden storm door. Before I could even get inside, Nanny would scoop me up in her arms.

At my grandmother Mimi’s house, I would walk thru the breezeway, twirl the knob on the antique doorbell and push open the door. As the last sound of the bell faded, I would hear Mimi’s familiar “Yoo-hoo!” from somewhere down the hall. Then would come the embrace that said, without ever needing words, “I’m glad you’re here.”

As children, we rarely appreciate what a gift that is.

To be expected.

To be welcomed.

To be loved.

Not because of what we had done.

Not because of what we might someday become.

Simply because we belonged.

The older I get, the more I realize how much of life is spent searching for that feeling. People search for it in careers, accomplishments, relationships, wealth, status, politics, and a hundred other places. Underneath it all is a longing to know that we matter.

That we are seen.

That we are wanted.

That someone is glad we’re here.

The remarkable thing about my grandmothers was that their love was neither permissive nor controlling. Mimi let me wear my hair long when I was a teenager—down to my neck, which seemed quite impressive at the time. But she had one condition: keep it clean. Otherwise, she warned, she would cut it off herself. Nanny insisted on manners and understanding our family history. She taught me how to behave like a gentleman, how to treat people with respect, and yes, even which fork to use at the dinner table.

At the time those lessons sometimes felt unnecessary. Today I understand they were gifts.

Neither woman was interested in controlling me.

Neither was interested in merely indulging me.

Their love was ordered around helping me become who I was created to be.

They welcomed me exactly as I was, but they loved me too much to leave me there.

The older I get, the more I think that may be one of the best descriptions of God’s love.

Our culture often presents two alternatives.

One version of love says, “Anything goes.”

Another says, “Perform well enough and maybe you’ll be accepted.”

Neither sounds much like Jesus.

The God we meet in Scripture welcomes sinners, forgives failures, restores the broken, and then patiently shapes them into the people they were created to become.

He does not love us because we are perfect.

He loves us into becoming more than we are.

When Jesus wanted to explain God’s heart, He told a story about a father watching the road for a wayward son.

The son expected judgment.

The father ran to meet him.

The son prepared an apology.

The father prepared a celebration.

The son hoped for a place among the servants.

The father restored him as a son.

Every time I read that story, I think of doors opening.

I think of light spilling out.

I think of hearing my name called from somewhere down the hall.

And I think perhaps that is why Jesus told the story.

Not merely to teach us about forgiveness.

Not merely to explain salvation.

But to help us understand what kind of God is waiting for us.

The kind who opens the door.

The kind who runs to meet His children.

The kind who says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

And perhaps every truly loving welcome we have ever experienced in this life is only a faint echo of the greater welcome still to come.

As I’ve reflected on those memories, I’ve realized something else. The older I get, the less I simply miss Nanny and Mimi. What I really miss is the way they loved. And perhaps that longing exists for a reason.

Perhaps it is not merely a desire to go back.

Perhaps it is a calling to go forward.

Today I find myself hoping that when my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; and my church children; and my Kenyan children, think of Opa, they will remember something similar.

Not a perfect man.

Not a man who always had the right answers.

Not a man who never failed.

But a man whose presence made them feel welcomed.

A man whose home was a place of laughter, stories, safety, and grace.

A man who loved them enough to encourage them toward the people God created them to be.

A man whose life, however imperfectly, pointed beyond himself to Jesus.

Because in the end, that is what Nanny and Mimi gave me.

More than memories.

More than traditions.

More than lessons about haircuts and table manners.

They gave me a glimpse of what love looks like when it is patient, steadfast, and ordered toward another person’s good.

And now it is my turn.