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St. Pierre in one of his books tells of a French ship which had been beating about for months amid storms in the southern seas. One morning land was cried from the mast head. Passengers and crew gathered on deck, awaiting in suspense the unveiling of the coming shore. Vague outlines only were seen, so vague that the uncertainty almost broke the hearts of the watchers. Was it land? If so, what land? Could it be France? Was it indeed France? Or was it some strange country? Nearer and nearer they came. Clearer and more distinct became the outlines. After some hours, hours that seemed days, the lookout cried, “France! France! It is France!” The joy of the ship’s company knew no bounds. They were indeed home after all their wanderings and all their dangers and fears.
So will it be with us, when, through the mists of that sea which we call death, we approach the shores of eternal life. After the dimness of dying, our eyes shall open to behold the banks of the celestial land. Then the shout will be, not “France! It is France!” But “Heaven! Heaven! It is Heaven!” The storms will all be past. We shall be in glory. Then we shall have life in all its fullness. Then we shall be at home.