I first met Mrs. Lutrelle Tift “Weetie” Rankin about seven months ago, shortly after had I arrived in Tifton. Once I had settled in here at St. Anne’s and had unpacked the boxes in our new home, Roy called and said, “I want you to come out and meet my mama.” You all know Roy, and the very thought of meeting the woman who raised that man was more than just a little intruiguing! So a date was set, and my family and I set out to meet Miss Weetie. As we arrived, we walked into that long, long house of hers—making our path all the way back to the far living room—where we found Miss Weetie. . . sitting regally in her wheelchair, dressed to the nines with her jewelry on, her hair done up, that giant smile on her face, and an indelible twinkle in her eye. And it became quite clear then and there, that when you are a guest at Miss Weetie’s house, you are an honored guest. No matter how limited she had become in her mobility, you knew that she had prepared her very best hospitality for you and that, for the time being, her home was your home.

Now, those of you who have been out to Miss Weetie’s house know that it is no ordinary house. You step in, you look down the length of it, you start walking from room to room (to room to room to room), and just when you think it ends—just when you think you have seen it all and that there cannot possibly be more—there is more! It is a house that just does not stop. So I asked Roy about this, saying, “Roy, what’s the story on this place? Why does it seem to go on forever?” He replied, “Well, believe it or not, my mama and daddy wanted sixteen children, so they built a house that could hold them all. That’s why our dining room has eighteen chairs; that’s why there are so many bedrooms; that’s why the house is so big.” Of course, as you all know, Miss Weetie and Mr. Homer didn’t quite make it to sixteen children, but just one look at the back of your bulletin—with eight children, eighteen grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren—it is abundantly clear that their wish for many children was met (and then some!) . . . just perhaps in a different way than they expected.

In the Gospel, Jesus talks about God’s Kingdom, and he says, “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places,” or as another English translations has it, “In my Father’s house there are many rooms.” It seems that Miss Weetie and Mr. Homer are not the only ones who have looked to the future and have built a massive house in the hopes of welcoming many children in. As it turns out, God himself had the exact same thought and has done the exact same thing. 

Jesus says, “In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” And so, somewhere in the heavenly realms, somewhere in the heart of God, it sounds like there is a room much like Miss Weetie’s dining room where a massive table sits with an endless number of chairs around it, ready to seat all of God’s children. And on this day at that long table, there is one less empty chair, for Miss Weetie now sits with all of God’s family, and she is beautiful. She is more beautiful than she has ever been, and she is home. And I’d like to think that as she runs around the rooms of God’s endless house and finally sees her Father face to face, she also now sees herself and her loved ones—including us—with perfect clarity and joy. Whatever anxieties she may have had on this earth, whatever hurts she may have given or received, whatever imperfections she—like all the rest of us—may have borne, they are now gone. Like a little girl safe in her Daddy’s house, Miss Weetie is at peace, and she calls us to be at peace, too.

You know, in her final days, I visited Miss Weetie at the ICU, and after she told me several times how cute I am, I asked her if I could pray with her. She said, “Yes,” so I asked, “Well, Miss Weetie, what should I pray for?” She said, “I want to thank God for this long, lovely life of mine and for my children.” I said, “Okay. What else.” “I want to thank God for Jesus.” Again, I said, “Sure. Anything else?” And she said, “And I want you to ask God to be with me.” And I said, “You got it.” So I took her hand in mine, closed my eyes, and started to pray: “Heavenly Father, Miss Weetie and I come before you on this day filled with thankfulness and praise for all your mercies. We are eternally grateful, Lord, for this long and beautiful life you have given her, and we are especially thankful for all her children and grandchildren. We also thank you for the gift of your Son, Jesus Christ. But now, Father, the way ahead is uncertain. We do not know what lies in the coming days, weeks, or months, and so we ask for you to surround Miss Weetie with your love and peace,” at which point Miss Weetie jerks up her hand, interrupts my prayer, and says, “Well now wait just a minute. I’m not dead!” I couldn’t help but laugh, and I said, “No ma’am, Miss Weetie, you are right. You definitely are not dead.”

My friends, even on this day, as we celebrate her life and join in her funeral, I think Miss Weetie’s prayer instructions would remain the same. On this day, sad though we may be, we are grateful for her long, lovely life, and we are thankful for all her children. On this day, we are grateful also for Jesus Christ and for the place he has prepared for her in his Father’s house, just as she and Mr. Homer prepared their house for their children and all the rest of us. But most of all, on this day, lest we start believing that we have lost her forever, that this is the end and that we will never see her again, I think that Miss Weetie would jerk up her hand, interrupt us, and in her feisty, indomitable way, would say, “Well now wait just a minute. I’m not dead! . . . I’m just changed.” And she would be right.

So on this day, as our mother, grandmother, and friend goes home to the place prepared for her at her Father’s house, let us rejoice. For her Father’s house has many rooms, and there are many more seats at that table . . . seats for you, seats for me, and seats for all God’s people. And in the meantime, until you and I finally make it through this life and into the next, let us simply be glad to know that in God’s heaven, there is a woman dressed to the nines, her hair done up, a giant smile on her face, and an indelible twinkle in her eye, grinning at each new soul as they too enter in, and saying to them as she said to so many of us, “Welcome home.” Amen.