The Banner That Never Came Down

In the summer of 1987, Margaret Ellison of Boone, North Carolina, hung a hand-sewn banner from the front porch railing the day her husband Robert came home from eight months of cancer treatment at Duke University Medical Center. The banner read simply: "Welcome Home, My Love." It was stitched in gold thread on deep red fabric — colors she chose because they reminded her of autumn in the Blue Ridge, the season they had married.

Robert lived another eleven years after that homecoming. And for every one of those years, Margaret left the banner hanging. Rain faded the fabric. Wind frayed the edges. Neighbors suggested she take it down. But Margaret refused. "That banner isn't decoration," she told her daughter. "It's a declaration. Every morning when Robert walks out that door, I want him to remember — he is claimed."

When the Beloved in Song of Solomon 2:4 says, "His banner over me was love," she is not describing a fleeting romantic gesture. In the ancient world, a banner marked territory, identity, belonging. It told everyone who passed by: this one is spoken for. This one is covered. This one is mine.

The God who brings us into His banqueting house does not love us quietly or privately. He raises a banner — visible, weathered, and deliberate. Not a banner He hangs once and forgets, but one He refuses to take down, no matter how the storms come. You are claimed. You are covered. You belong to Him.