It has struck me, that so many of my lasting memories, the most pignant ones, were when I felt timeless – as if I tasted some small part of something everlasting, something greater. This has been the case since youth, the smells of musty basements and roleplaying, the exertion of summer and fort-building, the sorrow of birthdays gone wrong. This sensation only amplified as I grew older; I could feel my inmost self reaching out for the eternal, for the maker of time and all that is beyond it, though I did not know him then. And so these are all experiences unique to me, yet the impetus is common to man. Eternity has been written on our hearts, and the things we experience are signs and indicators, arrows pointing to their maker. We long for what we do not yet have, and yet we know that there is something more fulfilling yet to be. C.S. Lewis stated it well when he noted that as one approaches Heaven, the experience – taste, vision, scent – becomes more real, not less. We have temporary satiety here and by it we know the hunger of the soul for its maker, for a lasting fulfillment, for an undying kingdom. And the oddity is that we sense this kingdom and are reaching for it in every moment we have that imprints itself upon us; every memory is all that we are reaching outwards for home, the eternity within reaching for eternity without end.