04/30/2026
Joel 2:25
“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…”
There are certain moments in life that carry a weight we can’t fully explain. A scene, a line, a quiet exchange—and suddenly something deep within us is stirred. Not just memory… but longing.
There is a moment in Field of Dreams where a father looks around and asks, almost in wonder, “Is this heaven?” And the answer comes back, simple and grounded: “No… it’s Iowa.”
And yet, it doesn’t feel like Iowa.
It feels like something more.
Because what is happening in that moment is not just a reunion—it is a restoration. A relationship that had been cut short, words that were never said, time that seemed permanently lost… is suddenly given back. Not explained. Not earned. Just… given.
That is why it moves us. I have often wondered why it moved me so much.
It touches the place in us that knows what it is to lose something we cannot recover. A conversation that never happened. A relationship that ended without resolution. Years that feel swallowed up, with no way to go back.
We live with that. Quietly.
And then, for a moment, we are shown something different. A father and a son, standing in a field, not trying to fix the past, but simply present to each other. No speeches. No unpacking of regret. Just an invitation: “You want to have a catch?”
And something inside us breaks open.
Because we recognize it.
We recognize the longing for restoration.
We recognize the ache for time to be redeemed.
We recognize the quiet hope that what feels lost… might not be beyond reach after all.
Scripture speaks into that longing in a way that is both tender and profound. God says, “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.” Not just the harvest—but the years.
That is something only God can do.
We cannot go back. We cannot relive what has passed. But God is not bound by time the way we are. What feels gone to us is not gone to Him. What feels unfinished is not beyond His reach.
There are moments—rare, but real—when heaven seems to come close. When the ordinary becomes sacred. When something broken is touched by grace.
A field in Iowa.
A father.
A son.
A simple game of catch.
And suddenly, it feels like heaven.
Not because everything is fixed…
but because something has been restored.
That is the hope we carry.
That what feels lost is not lost forever.
That what was never said may not be beyond redemption.
And that in the hands of God, even time itself is not the final word.
It moves me because it gives me, for a moment, what I thought time had taken away—and whispers that maybe, in God’s hands, nothing is ever truly lost.
