My Dear Shepherds,
Two friends were dying. Both in their 40s. Kids at home. Leaders. Wonderful Christians. And too, too young. I grieved and thought of a night long ago.
I was 18. The next day my family would take me to college—700 miles away, to a city I'd never seen and where I knew no one. I'd outgrown my little hometown and was excited to go. A whole new world was waiting. But that night I stood alone out on the front porch and sobbed. The life I knew so well—the streets and stories, the accomplishments, my family and friends—I was leaving them all and I knew nothing would be the same again.
I wonder if it will be like that when my time to depart for heaven draws near.
I’m 74 and I've thought about heaven for a long time now. I've looked through the tiny, high windows of Scripture, trying to catch a glimpse of glory. I used to sit in my office on Friday afternoons—when sermon preparation was a slog and the week had been heavy—and listen to a choir sing, “No more night, no more pain, no more tears, never crying again,” and I'd choke up.
I wish I felt our hope more; felt more sure, more solid. Will it really be like what I've read, better than we've sung? Those stories we hear about people who've glimpsed heaven or even had a walk-around and then come back—really? But I'll say this for sure: I'm homesick. I'm tired of this place, even with all its wonders and loves.
When I read the Bible, the words ground me again; or heaven me, perhaps I should say. Jesus really did promise, “I go to prepare a place for you so that you can be with me.” There really are “thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly.” There really is a paradise. Jesus said so, and I trust Jesus.
Every once in a while, I think about Larry. He was young, too. A husband and father in his 30s, near death from cancer. I had gone to serve him Communion because he was too weak to come to church. He was a deeply thoughtful man and that day, as he spoke slowly and deliberately, I began to write down what he said.
“Even if I have a short time to live,” Larry said, “he's given me a great hope. Sometimes life throws us some tremendous curves, but death has lost its sting. At the point in my life when I'm the weakest,” he said, “I'm the strongest I've ever been.”
We started talking about his funeral, which as it turned out would be exactly one month later. He told me he wanted lots of singing. I loved how Larry would throw his head back in church and sing with unabashed gusto. I asked him what he wanted his funeral to be like. He said, “The only thing I want people to think on that day is joy; is . . .” and he raised his hands above his head very deliberately and then clapped once, slowly and grandly.
“When I pass into his kingdom, I envision this spectacular light, this spectacular feeling of being able to let go. I've felt a lot of grief for my children, my wife, my family, and myself, but I've had to get over that. But once you get past that, you know that God is there—that spirit of joyfulness.”
“It's going to be a happy day for me,” Larry said, hope thick in the room. “No grief for me. God chose me this time!”
Be ye glad!
