Jeremiah 29:11 is cited often as a message of encouragement. Sadly, many people memorize this tender verse in isolation. It is important to view the passage in its historical context to understand it accurately. The prophet Jeremiah is addressing the Israelites, the descendants of Abraham. As a result of the Neo-Babylonian Empire’s conquest of the kingdom of Judah in 605 B.C., the Israelites were held captive in Babylon. Their captivity ended in 536 B.C. when Cyrus the Great gave the Jewish people permission to return to Palestine. After 70 years of life in a foreign land, despair had set in. The Israelites’ faith had been weakened greatly. Through Jeremiah’s words, these people were encouraged with the prophet’s reminder to trust in the Lord as He would deliver them.
I draw meaning from this piece of biblical history. An event that occurred more than 2500 years ago still speaks today! We all face heartache, loss, and separation; these themes are just as real in 2025 as they were during the prophet’s lifetime. We need to hear Jeremiah’s words as they come from our Lord whose promises are trustworthy.
I remember a life-altering event that occurred in the spring of 1983. I had begun my last semester of the second year in seminary with a summer internship ahead. I was a research assistant to a professor whose reputation for excellent scholarship added a rich dimension to a schedule already packed with demanding course work. I loved it! The professor’s wife became a good friend of mine. In fact, she encouraged me to do whatever possible to contact my long-estranged father. Between the two of us, our efforts paid off. One evening, I returned to the residents’ hall for graduate students and found several messages waiting from my father. (As cell phones were still conveniences of the future, we students shared phones and left messages for each other.) I recall my pounding heart and shaky hands. Just looking at the scraps of paper that read, “Your father called,” several times, sent chills down my spine. Trembling, I dialed the number included on the small pieces of paper and waited. An eager, male voice answered. The conversation began with the person I had not seen or heard from in 26 years. We talked, slowly at first, until the words tumbled out.
A week later, I sat in a window seat and waited for takeoff. I was headed for Columbus, Ohio. From LaGuardia airport in New York, it was a short flight. Tears threatened my composure as the plane ascended into a solid blue sky. I mentally aged my father’s face from the last time I had seen him. At the same time, memories filled my heart.
After what seemed interminably long, the pilot announced the plane’s descent toward the runway. My mouth was dry. I sat glued to my seat. Then, people filled the aisle. We had landed. I drew myself up; my body felt leaden. I recognized him immediately: not as tall as I remembered, white-gray hair atop a slim, well-dressed form. Our eyes met across the crowd of people in search of their loved ones. I fell into my father’s arms.
What followed were days of non-stop talk. His eager, dark-brown eyes searched mine during those hours when time stood still. I had his eyes and curly hair. The questions that had plagued me throughout my childhood were being answered in that week of day trips and evenings spent with his wife over quiet dinners. The broken puzzle of my past filled in during those tender days of narrated family history. I experienced the love of my father. I began slowly to come to terms with the love of my heavenly father as a result. The gift of that week claimed my heart.
