My Grandfather was a country physician. He was the best grandpa a little girl could have and I remember sitting on his lap and listening to his many stories.
After delivering hundreds of babies at home, Grandpa Hanna opened his own maternity hospital. He was its cook, ambulance driver and attending physician. I assume it was at this juncture, that he built his custom operating table. It featured a tall table, with drawers and a cupboard beneath, and a pull out section to accommodate the patient’s feet.
Grandpa didn’t retire until he was over eighty and he lived ten years after that. The one thing I wanted to remember him by was that operating table. We refinished it and used it, believe it or not, as a kitchen island. It added a lot of charm to our spanking new house and was always a conversation piece. But a few years later when we needed to sell the house and move to Calgary, we had to leave it behind. So I placed a note inside the cupboard of the table that said something like this: This piece of furniture has great sentimental value to me. If you ever decide to get rid of it, please let me know so that I have the opportunity to claim it.
We moved, years passed, and I concluded I would never see the beloved antique again. But then I got a letter from the current owner of the table. It was no longer wanted. At that point, I had neither money nor space for the table- not even in the kitchen. But I desperately wanted it back in the family where it belonged. My sister, lover of all things old and sentimental, conscripted my dad to rent a utility trailer and drive with her to Edmonton to redeem the table. She brought it back to her home and restored it.
The happy story of being reunited with my Grandpa’s operating table has a very sad chapter. My precious sister joined her Saviour in heaven late last year. And in the after math, her husband decided to sell the home he shared with her. In the process, he gave the operating table back to me. We moved it into our current, more spacious home recently. Now it is restored and redeemed. It looks a lot like it did when Grandpa used it to heal people. And once again, it belongs to me.
The story is too like the Gospel of Jesus not to draw comparisons. I was the rightful owner of the operating table, but the treasure was lost to me. Then even though it should never have been removed from my possession, someone who loved me, with resources I did not have, bought it back.
She then returned it to its original condition.
Jesus created you and me. He is our rightful owner. Yet by our own choice we were torn from him and he mourned. But at great expense, he bought us back, even though by rights we belonged to him the whole time. He restored us to our untainted state by his blood so that we could re-enter relationship with him.
If we know Jesus, we have been redeemed.
We are being restored.
There is no greater story than this!
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