One summer evening I enjoyed a bonfire with my two grandchildren. I watched nine-year-old John heat the end of a stick in the fire then wave it in the dark night air, drawing designs with the glowing ember tip. “John! Be careful,” I scolded as he swung the stick dangerously close to his little sister. “The end of that stick is so hot; if it touches Alyssa’s skin, it will hurt so bad she’ll cry and cry and cry.”
“Okay, Grandma,” he said, poking the stick safely back in the bed of embers. “I won’t do that anymore.”
Eight-year-old Alyssa watched the whole episode in her usual quiet, thoughtful manner. After a few minutes of contemplation, she looked over at me and said, “Grandma… I bet fire won’t hurt in heaven.”
I thought for a minute before replying, “You’re right, Lyss. In heaven we’ll have all the beauty of earth, but none of the pain. Fire will still be pretty, but it won’t be able to hurt us.”
Children have a way of processing the deep things of God in a very simplistic way. Despite the impending pain of a red-hot stick, Alyssa’s mind was fixed on heaven. That can be hard to do, especially when emotional pain clouds our spiritual vision. I experienced such a clouding several years later.
My dad’s health had been slowly deteriorating for two years, but suddenly it took a turn for the worse. His condition went downhill fast. He was in and out of hospitals for several weeks, during which time I prayed diligently for his complete healing.
After multiple tests and surgery, Dad’s condition seemed to improve. We moved him to a nursing home, so he could regain strength before going home. Things were looking up.
Then the call came. Dad had been rushed back to the hospital for emergency surgery. “You better come quickly,” my sister advised with a tremor in her voice.
I raced the 40 miles to the hospital, praying with all my heart that God would heal Dad. I wasn’t ready to let him go.
A few miles from the hospital a strange thing happened. The Lord interrupted my prayer, reminding me of all the suffering Dad had been through the last few weeks. With a tear trickling down my cheek, the tone of my prayer changed. “Do what’s best for Dad, Lord, even if it means taking him to heaven. Not my will, but Thine be done.” At that moment I saw a vision of heaven opening up and Jesus receiving Dad’s spirit.
I knew even before the surgeon pushed through the doors of the hospital waiting room that Dad didn’t survive the surgery. “I have some bad news,” he said to the family. “We lost your Dad on the operating table.” At that precise moment, on the overhead TV in the waiting room, a choir was singing the Alleluia Chorus.
Even though I knew Dad was in a better place, I grieved sorely. Dad and I had become very close recently, which was a long-awaited miracle. Strong-willed child that I was, constant friction developed between Dad and me. As an adult, I longed to be close with Dad, but we never seemed to get past this clash of wills… that is, until the last three years of his life. God moved mightily to reconcile our relationship. We actually became best friends.
My mom is a remarkable woman. She chose to grieve with a thankful heart. Since Dad passed, she closes every meal-time prayer with, “Thank You for taking Dad to heaven.” We’re all grateful Dad’s in heaven, where “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain… (Revelation 21:4).” As a little child once noted, “I bet fire won’t hurt in heaven.”
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain…” (Revelation 21:4)
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