My First Day in Heaven

It’s been a month since we parted ways so unexpectedly. A month in your time. I confess, it doesn’t really seem so long in my perspective. It doesn’t seem that short either. When you are outside of time looking in, it’s hard to keep track of it. We get busy talking or praising or watching the races of our brothers and sisters that are still running and we forget to appreciate what time means to you.

I do remember what happened a month ago today. When I was still with you I wasn’t sure I would remember my life, but I recall every detail with more startling accuracy than I could describe to you if I were given the chance to try. It seems far away and almost like a dream – my life there in that world – and I know now that where I am is where we were always meant to be. I hope you will find that a comfort – that I wouldn’t want to come back even if it were possible. I’m done. I’m free! I’m complete, and I’m with Him. You know I have no regrets.

I would like to say I had some twinge of foresight that told me I was making my final statements on facebook and twitter that night before. I always expected that there would be some sign, some clue that I was taking my last trip up those stairs and into my pajamas and into bed. That as I closed my eyes and gave a sigh, leaving behind the day and succumbing to rest that a weary body must have, I had just the smallest hint of excitement at what would happen.

I never woke up. Not in the sense you might worry about. I didn’t wake up to the terrible sense of dying, of pain and discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I felt strange, but not bad. I got up, feeling almost too light for my feet. I tried to ascertain what was different, and when I stepped in front of the mirror, I wondered if I was dreaming when I saw no reflection.

“Tom.”

That’s all he said, and though I had never heard the sound of his voice before, I knew in an instant who he was. It made sense that the room was impossibly bright in the moments just before dawn. It registered why it was warm and happy and familiar and peaceful.

I can’t say that he said my name just as you read it a moment ago. I recognized the word as my name, but the sound that came from his mouth was indescribable. I understand now why John couldn’t seem to come up with a good way to explain the things he saw in Revelation. It’s a higher plane. There’s nothing like it in the cursed world that still holds you captive. If I was going to tell you what the sound of his voice it like, I would take you back to the time we stood at the top of Niagra Falls, and ask you to close your eyes and listen to the sound of that roaring, rushing, falling water pouring over the rocks and crashing down below into the river. That is a very feeble, not quite accurate way to say how the voice of Jesus sounds in your ear. At the same time, it is a hushed, unhurried, affectionate whisper.

I wasn’t sure whether to fall to my knees, whether I still had knees, or if I should start dancing around the room like an elated five-year-old at Disneyland, which is what I felt like doing. I looked for the very first time into the face of the one that had existed before time, the one that took his immensity and forced it into the body of a man just so he could pay my pardon. The one that went all the way to death and back so he could have victory over mine, and this could be a happy moment of completion and not judgment.

“Lord,” I said, my voice breathless with awe. I wanted to say something, anything, to let him know how thankful I was to finally see him face to face. But seeing that knowing smile on his face and having him reach out his hand to me, I lost all the words I wanted to grab hold of.

“Well, done.” He embraced me, and I knew sheer, pure, unadulterated joy. The feeling that we spent our whole lives trying to grasp and never quite find. That “something missing” that we always feel in the back of our minds. It was suddenly and awesomely satisfied in the moment he put his arms around me.

I was still out of words, but he had some for me. “Do you want to stay here? I know it is earlier than you planned. I know you had more you wanted to accomplish. Your death will minister to those who need to hear the gospel. Because it will be sudden and long before the time they expected, it will be hard on the ones you love. But it will make a difference for the kingdom.”

In the back of my mind, I was somewhat aware of dim activity in the room. Medics? Were they trying to restart a heart? My heart went out to my family. We hadn’t planned to say goodbye so soon. There were things left unsaid, undone. It would be painful.

But when my eyes turned back to Jesus, and I saw the host of smiling angels standing around him, and my eyes began to focus on the people around him – loved ones I hadn’t seen for years, standing around him, smiling at me, young and strong and beautiful and holy… I knew I couldn’t. I knew I would have to let them go, because this was where I belonged. I knew they would understand in the little time it would take before they would join us. I hoped they would take comfort in the hope they believed in with every breath they took, just as I had. Just as I had taught them.

“I want to be with you!”

He nodded. We lingered, for a time. You may not have known it, but we sat with you in the living room while you faced the hardest day of your life. I wanted to wipe away your tears, to tell you somehow that we were there, that Jesus was right there with you and everything was going to be okay. That the best is yet to come.

I visited, with Christ, in the days that immediately followed. The precious moments that went by, with loved ones gathered near and tears shed and memories shared, with all my grandchildren running around the funeral home, while you sat under that tent in the cold at the cemetery, and in all the cherished moments of the memorial service while you honored Christ by remembering me and my story. I was there. I’m still there, though my attention is sometimes captured by Christ, by the people I am meeting and the first-hand stories I am enjoying. We are your cloud of witnesses. We’re waiting for you. You will understand in time, that it isn’t going to be much longer when you consider eternity. We’ll be together again soon. Our relationship will be different, but it will be better. We will have the perfected love, instead of the version we struggle for in that life. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I know it, because I have eternity’s crystal-clear perspective to speak from. All the things I ever told you about heaven, and quite a few more wonderful things than I could have imagined – they will be yours one day as well. And I will be waiting to greet you. After you’re done saying hello to Jesus.

Keep the faith, my precious family. I love you still. I won’t stop. More importantly, HE won’t. We’ll be waiting with open arms when reunion day comes.  Just hold on a little longer.

Photo taken by Tom Parsons

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