The Sunday Sermonette – A Mansion Over The Hilltop.

In the spring of 1965, Dad, Mom, and I loaded up the family Comet, with its cat-eye taillights, and headed north to Jackson. We tuned left onto the Natchez Trace Parkway and motored west and back in time to Natchez, Mississippi. Its annual Spring Pilgrimage awaited us with its magnificent, anti-bellum mansions that lay ensconced beneath avenues of ancient, moss-draped oaks.

My thirteen-year-old self had never seen such splendor. I longed to learn more about the days before the Civil War when Mississippi was one of the wealthiest states in the Union. Its vast wealth was created by “King Cotton” and the multitudes of slaves who labored for him. All that wealth vanished during the war, leaving the state destitute.

Due to my newfound fascination with the vestiges of grandeur that Natchez offered, the Pilgrimage ladies “took a shine to me.” Mom smiled, Dad rolled his eyes, and I blissfully basked in it all. One lady, blue-haired and smothered in pearls, regaled me with stories of another mansion, one she knew would intrigue me. Motoring out of Natchez and onward to Port Gibson, little did I know what wonder stood down a winding two-lane road—standing alone in majestic silence and seemingly forgotten.

When Mr. Smith Daniel began construction on Windsor in 1859, I’m sure he was well aware that he was building more than a stunning house in a state renowned for its mansions. As fate would have it, though, he would enjoy his creation for only a few weeks; he died at age thirty-four. And the supposedly fireproof, columned mansion of his dreams would stand for only thirty years before catching fire and collapsing into a smoldering ruin.
“Son! Look at that!” Dad said as our Comet came to a slow stop. “Andy! Those columns!” Mom said. Creeping out from a jungle of overgrown azalea bushes and undergrowth, twenty-three towering columns stood like faithful sentinels, long left with nothing to guard. The rust from the iron capitals flowed down the vine-covered fluted columns like blood.

Even at a young age, I was touched with melancholy over the thought of such magnificence—priceless antiques, crystal chandeliers, sterling-silver doorknobs, and a library filled with leather-bound books—destroyed due to a lit cigar, foolishly tossed into a pile of sawdust. The fading afternoon sunlight added to my sadness, as did the gentle breeze whispering in and out of the decaying columns, a mournful requiem for a long-lost treasure.
“Son, it’s time to go,” Dad said. He noticed my somber expression. “It’s sad Windsor burned, but in this life, Andy, nothing lasts forever. Let’s go home.” And we did. Fifty-nine years later, I’ve never forgotten my Dad’s wise words. When I think of Windsor, though, I think of another mansion that will last forever.

The idea of mansions in Heaven is linked to the concept of heavenly rewards. The Good Book tells believers they will receive rewards in Heaven for their good deeds on earth. These rewards may come in the form of crowns, treasures, and even mansions. Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”

Should we, as believers, take the word, mansion, literally? Whether or not we’ll inherit a “Windsor” in all its pre-Civil War glory remains to be seen. But as God’s children, we do, indeed, have an inheritance awaiting us in Heaven. And tangible or not, that inheritance will be eternal—a life in a place with no fears, death, or pain.

We’ll be secure in God’s kingdom forever, too, perhaps “In a mansion just over the hilltop. In that bright land where we’ll never grow old. And someday yonder we will never more wander. But walk on the streets that are purest gold.”

Ponder this and go forth!