Sometimes I think about Heaven...
I think about the moment when I will first get there and I wonder if arriving in heaven will really be all happy and joyful like all of the songs say. I can't help feeling, sometimes, that it might be very different from all of that.
I see myself running, like in a race, and I'm nearing the finish line. Only I'm not exactly running anymore. I'm stumbling, staggering, trying to run but failing.
My legs are wobbling, my chest is heaving and the pain that wracks my body seems to double every time my foot hits the ground. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, sweat is running into my eyes, and I'm almost ready to give up - to collapse in a heap on the road and die - when something up ahead catches my eye.
I strain my eyes and see that it is my Heavenly Father, in all his glory, waiting for me at the finish line, waving his arms excitedly, beckoning me, urging me on. I can't hear what he saying exactly because I'm still too far away, but I imagine him yelling to all the angels:
"Gabriel! Michael! Look over there!” And then, letting a grin spread over his face, he explains, “Andy's coming!"
One by one the angels stop what they're doing and come over to see what is going on. Then, spotting me, all the host of heaven join in - yelling and waving and beating their wings excitedly.
But then the grin on my Father’s face turns to a look of concern and I see the him whisper something in one of the angel's ears and he zips off toward me at light speed.
I am encouraged by what I see but my body is giving out in spite of it all. One of my feet catches on a stone; I stumble. My body lurches forward and I see the ground rushing up at me. I am falling.
I feel my body stiffen, preparing for the impact when suddenly, I stop short. There are arms under me, lifting me up and I am suspended in mid air.
"Good," I think, "no more running." And my body goes limp. But as soon as the words pass through my mind I hear a firm voice in my ear.
"I am sorry little one. I can only protect you on the road and keep you from falling as the Master has bid me. You must finish the race. But remember the Master’s words, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
The angel then sets me on my feet and my legs, limp from exhaustion, immediately buckle underneath me.
"Steady!" says my helper. "Stand. You must finish the course."
I stand. I wobble. I feel dizzy and the mucous in my mouth tastes like blood. I cough: it hurts. I spit: it is blood.
I rock forward hoping that a leg will be there to keep my body from hitting the ground. Surprisingly it is. I try the trick again, and again my leg comes forward keeping distance between the road and my aching body. I repeat the process over and over again - lean forward, move foot; lean forward, move foot; until I am wheeling down the road like a drunk at bar time.
When I get used to this method of movement, I raise my eyes from the patch of ground immediately in front of my feet and look again to my goal. I am closer now than I was a bit ago and the celestial crowd seems even more excited because of my progress. I can see their faces now and I see that mixed with their excitement is a look of concerned urgency. The look on my Father's face is similar but more confident, more reassuring, not anxious. The intensity of the love in His eyes warms me. And though I am exhausted I cannot take my eyes from His. Then I hear Him:
"Come on Andy! Come on home!"
"But Abba, I can't! I'm too tired."
'"You can do it, Andy! Just keep moving!"
"But Abba. Papa..."
I can't say anymore. I am crying, weeping for the pain and the sorrow of the road. My heart is breaking to be with my Abba, to feel his strong arms around me.
I trip again but catch myself and stand there staggering, black spots swarming my vision. I try to move again, but my body is screaming at me to stop and with each step I wince with pain and feel as if I must collapse.
Suddenly it is too much.
“I CAN'T!!”
I stop dead in the road and sink to my knees. I don't ever want to move again. Let this be my tomb. I give up.
Then I hear it, can't help but hear it: his strong, warm voice speaking low and deep and softly now.
"Andy, my son..." His voice is less kind now, but not cruel either. "Andy, get up on your feet and come home to your rest."
"But Abba..." I whimper. my face buried in my hands.
"Andy, look at me. I made you. I called you. I put my Spirit in you and made you into a new creation. The road is very hard, but you can finish the race. I know the pain. I know the weariness. I know the despair...I've been there Andy.
"I am your strength. I am your victory. Arise, little one. Though your legs wobble and your knees buckle, do not be faint of heart for I am with you.”
As He speaks I sit there entranced: ashamed yet assured. His words are familiar, they seem to come echoing down from the ages gone by.
"Do not anxiously look about you. for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you. I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”
"Though youths grow weary and tired, and vigorous young men stumble badly, yet those who wait for Yahweh will gain new strength: they will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not grow faint."
All at once it is silent. The angels no longer cheer but stand there straight and tall, their eyes burning for the love of their God. Then, as I raise my eyes to meet His. He speaks again.
"My child, arise. Come home."
Slowly I climb to my feet and begin limping forward, step by step. He does not take His eyes from mine the whole way.
And then it will be that when I have finished the race I will stagger into heaven and collapse into the embrace of my Father. And oh, what a queer scene there will be then. Myriads of angels whooping and laughing, clapping their hands and beating their wings for joy, making such a noise as has never been heard by mortal man.
And in the middle of the celebration a child will be clinging to his Father, sobbing, wailing at the top of his lungs, crying his life out.
On and on he will cry, weeping for the pain of the road and the many troubles of life; once and for all crying away the pain and the blackness that has plagued him ever since who knows when. He will stay there long, crying and wailing and sobbing into the chest of His Father who will simply hold the child tight in His arms rocking him back and forth and stroking his head, saying no words but beaming with joy that his Andy has come home.
Sometimes I think about Heaven...
© Andrew LeCleir, 2013
