It takes a long time for sinful instincts to become pure, for tendencies toward what is evil to be transformed into tendencies toward what is good, lovely, and pleasing to God. The man who quits drugs will still react when he catches a whiff and the woman who gave up alcoholism will still struggle when she takes a sip. You can be a Christian for many years and still find your heart instinctually swayed toward what you once loved and what once drew your heart.
This is why, I’m sure, the Bible often offers warnings like, “Do not envy the wicked” (Proverbs 24:1). The Bible would not bother to warn us of something that was not an actual temptation. Hence, we can be certain that we need this warning—we need to be warned that, unless we guard our hearts, we will be envious of others—even those who hate God. And not only that, we will be envious of them for the things that are permitted to them but withheld from us.
A man I once met along the way told me that he sometimes wishes he had sowed his wild oats while he was young. He had lived out his young adult years with a good measure of self-control, then settled into married life. He loves his wife and loves his family. But sometimes an inner voice whispers that he might be more fulfilled now if he had experimented more then—if he had dated more girls, slept with a few of them, and had a greater number of sexual experiences. It’s not that he wants to do any of that now, but that he feels a sense of envy that he will go to the grave without experiencing what so many others have. He looks toward the wicked with a sense of envy.
I have never been drunk but sometimes wonder what it’s like. After all, it certainly seems to be an enjoyable experience, at least until the next morning. Though I know the Bible says it’s wrong, I do sometimes wonder why they get to experience it and I don’t. I have never done drugs but have occasionally wished I could try it just once to experience what seems to be a rush that is not otherwise available. I have never played the lottery, but sometimes look wistfully at the photos of the winners with their oversized checks for countless millions of dollars. I know in theory that ill-gotten gains do not profit, but I still sometimes feel a sense of envy toward those who get to enjoy them.
Like that man I met along the way, like the young man to whom Proverbs is addressed, and like you (I presume), I am prone to envy the wicked. And to envy the wicked is to resent God—to fall into the age-old trap of believing that God is withholding something good from me, that I would be happier if he would allow me to enjoy what he forbids, to indulge in what he says is dangerous. My discontented heart is so easily swayed, so easily drawn from the right to the wrong. My heart so naturally believes that God is a foe rather than a friend, one who keeps me from joy instead of leading me toward it.
Yet in my better moments I am not resentful but thankful, for I know that God’s boundaries are good. I know that he permits me everything that will actually benefit me and denies me only what will actually harm me. I know that he withholds no good thing from those that he loves, but withholds only what would harm my body, scar my soul, undermine my relationships, and bring reproach upon his name. In my better moments I look toward the wicked with pity rather than envy, for I know there are always consequences to their indulgence and impending judgment for their wicked ways. “Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes,” said the Sage. “But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment” (Ecclesiastes 11:9). It is such a sobering thought, that.
I know that if I have missed out on a particular sin, I have not missed out on anything good, anything valuable, anything worthwhile.Share
And so I know that if I have missed out on a particular sin, I have not missed out on anything good, anything valuable, anything worthwhile. I have certainly not missed out on anything that would satisfy me for longer than a moment or that would make me a better man, a better husband, a better father. And I am fully confident that from the vantage point of heaven I will never look back with the least regret, but instead with the greatest gratitude, thanking God that his boundaries were drawn in such pleasant places, that he made known to me the path of life, and that by his grace he kept me on it, even when my heart was so prone to wander, so prone to leave the God I love.

The old adage may be trite, but that makes it no less true: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. There is something about being apart that stirs our affections, that causes us to understand and articulate what we might otherwise have taken for granted. It is often only through a time of separation that we come to understand how much another person means to us.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder” is true when our loved ones leave us for extended periods or when they depart for distant lands. But “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is equally true when our loved ones depart this earth altogether. We learn that death does not cause love to die, but that in its own way, it fosters and amplifies love all the more.
And why shouldn’t it? In the distance that death interposes, we come to overlook old vices and delight in former virtues. Offenses begin to fade from our minds, replaced by memories that are sweet and delightful. A loved one was never so virtuous and never so much a Christian as she is in our memory. And then there’s this: our hearts are naturally inclined toward those who are weak. And who could be weaker than one who is drawing his final breath, one who lies in a coffin, one who is buried in the cold ground? Death displays the ultimate weakness and it moves our hearts in pity and love.
And so, though our loved ones are gone, we love them still. Though our loved ones have been taken, we love them all the more. Their absence makes our hearts grow ever-fonder.
But what of their love for us? Do our loved ones continue to love us even when they have gone to that Land of Love, even when they have finally come face to face with the God of Love?
I am convinced that they do love us still and I am convinced that their love, too, grows all the more. I am convinced that absence makes their hearts grow fonder, just as it does ours.
After all, they are still sentient, still conscious, still human, still themselves. The lives they lived are real, the relationships they formed are genuine, the experiences they enjoyed are authentic. Though torn from this world and separated from their bodies for a time, they are not torn from who they were. They are not whitewashed into new beings, not reset into people radically different from the people they were on Earth. The bonds of marriage may be severed by death, but not the sweet friendship of a husband and wife. A man’s son here will still be his son there, a woman’s mother here still her mother there. There is much we wonder about heaven and much we discuss or debate, but not the continuity of relationships, not the continuity of love.
And so, if we treasure all the sweet memories we once made together, wouldn’t they? If our hearts yearn to make new memories with them, wouldn’t theirs? If our mouths are crying out “Come, Lord Jesus,” wouldn’t their mouths sing the same?
It is a beautiful thing to ponder that even as we remember our loved ones with such tender affection, they are remembering us with hearts just as warm. Even as we long for the day when we can throw our arms around them, they long for the day when they can throw theirs around us. Even as we yearn for the time when what was severed will be restored, they are yearning for it too. Their love for us continues and their love for us grows, for absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.

Good morning. Grace and peace to you today.

(Yesterday on the blog: A Prayer for My Parent Heart)
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