OPINION —
Of all the memories from my childhood, one stands above the rest. It’s so vivid that I can still remember the clothes we were wearing, the words that were spoken and the fear that suddenly wrapped itself around my heart.
Growing up, our family often traveled from Arkansas down to central Florida to visit relatives. Because of work schedules and school activities, we would sometimes travel in two vehicles. Mom would drive one, dad the other. And while riding with mom was always fun, there was something special about riding alone with dad. It was more than just time with a parent — it felt like time with a friend.
The only problem was that dad’s old 1984 Ford Ranger, purchased at a phone company auction, wasn’t exactly dependable. As we drove through Alabama on our way home, my mom, brother and sister were about half a mile ahead of us in the family van when from under the hood came a sound that my dad knew all too well. The truck began to sputter, slow down and eventually coast to the shoulder of the interstate. There we sat, watching the rest of my family disappear over the hill ahead of us in what can only be compared to the end of an old western watching the hero ride off into the sunset.
To a little boy living in the days before cell phones, it felt catastrophic. As I watched that van crest the hill and vanish into the sunset, my imagination took over. In my mind, that was the last time I would ever see my mom, brother and sister again. I think about that memory every time I picture the scene in Acts 1.
Jesus is standing on the Mount of Olives with His disciples. For more than three years, they had walked beside Him. They had heard His teaching, witnessed His miracles, watched Him calm storms, heal the sick and raise the dead. Then came the horror of the cross — followed by the wonder of the resurrection. Jesus was alive. He truly was the promised Messiah. Then suddenly, He begins to ascend.
Can you imagine what that moment must have felt like? The One they left everything to follow, the One they watched die, the One they saw raised from the dead, now disappearing into the clouds before their very eyes. I wonder what was going through their minds. Perhaps, like I did so many years ago, they too were so stuck in the moment that they couldn’t really think straight. Maybe there was even a moment of panic. Which is what makes what the angels say to them next, so fascinating. “Why do you stand looking into heaven?” (Acts 1:11). In other words: Why are you still standing here? Because the ascension was never meant to be the end of the story. Rather, it was the beginning of something greater.
In John 14, Jesus had already promised them: “I go to prepare a place for you.” The ascension is the moment those words begin unfolding in full view. Jesus was not abandoning His disciples. He was returning to the Father to reign, intercede and prepare an eternal home for His people. That changes everything because what the ascension means is that,
- Jesus is reigning right now.
- Jesus is interceding right now.
- Jesus is preparing right now.
- And one day… Jesus is returning.
As a child, the hour I spent stranded beside that interstate felt like an eternity. But before long, we were reunited with my family. And what happened next still feels like one of those moments where you can clearly see the hand of God. Or, as I often describe it, “a God thing.”
Members of a local church saw us broken down on the roadside and stopped to help. They gave us a ride into town, let my dad use their phone to leave a message on our answering machine so Mom would know where to find us, and connected us with another Christian who happened to be a mechanic. Not only did he repair the truck — he refused to charge us a dime. Looking back now, what felt like abandonment was only temporary separation.
Maybe that’s one reason the ascension matters so much. Sometimes we think of heaven as a distant or abstract hope. But for the Christian, heaven is personal because Jesus is there. The disciples watched Him go up knowing that one day they would follow. This world is not our final home. There is healing beyond the pain, assurance beyond the uncertainty and peace beyond the grave. Jesus didn’t simply rise from the dead so we could admire a miracle. He rose — and ascended — so we could live with hope. Real hope. The kind that steadies the heart because our future is secure in a reigning Savior.
That’s why the disciples didn’t leave the Mount of Olives in despair, but rather, great joy (Luke 24:52). Why? Because Jesus going home meant that one day, they would go home too. And nearly 2,000 years later, we today still live with that same anticipation. One day, the same Jesus who ascended into heaven will return. And when He does, He will take His people home at last.
God bless you, and I love you all.
