The Roll Call at Ellis Island

Between 1892 and 1954, more than twelve million immigrants passed through the Great Hall on Ellis Island. They arrived speaking Yiddish, Italian, Greek, Mandarin, Polish, Swedish — languages that tangled together into a roar beneath those vaulted tile ceilings. They carried bundles wrapped in cloth, photographs of people they might never see again, and the ache of everything they had survived to stand in that room.

Each person received a medical inspection, a legal interview, and a tag pinned to their coat — a small card with a number. It didn't matter whether you were a carpenter from Calabria or a seamstress from Minsk. The tag said you had been seen, processed, counted. You belonged to the next chapter.

Revelation 7 describes a scene that dwarfs Ellis Island beyond imagination. John sees a multitude so vast no one can count it — from every nation, tribe, people, and language — standing before the throne of the Almighty in white robes, waving palm branches, crying out with one voice. These are people who came through the great tribulation. They carried scars. They knew loss. Yet the Lamb at the center of the throne sealed them, shepherded them, and wiped every tear from their eyes.

No one slipped through uncounted. No one stood unmarked.

Whatever you have endured — the grief, the waiting, the cost of faithfulness — the God who numbers the stars also numbers His people. You are sealed. You are seen. And one day, you will join that thundering, multilingual chorus before the throne of the Most High.