A Staircase to Heaven
John 14:1-4
NIV
"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going."
Preface
A couple years ago I learned a new term:
prevenient grace. It is defined as the grace from God that comes before everything I do.
On January 8, 2012, I wrote words that, in my opinion, prepared me for the looming tragedy which was about to unfold on January 13, 2012 with the accidental death of my son.
At the time, when I wrote the following words, I was overcome with a strange passion to write as I had never known before. The words unfolded effortlessly as if God himself gave them to me.
As I look over this anecdote, I am in awe of God's love for me. I believe He gave me this memory to remind me that death is just the beginning, not the end of life.
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I sit in the back seat of a car traveling down a country road in Indiana farmland one summer’s night circa 1966 or ‘67. I don’t remember. The memory is in black and white for me, so I must have been young.
My grandpa sits next to me, and I snuggle against him. He smells like car grease and pipe tobacco. He wears a white shirt and a small tie. Maybe we have been to church. I don’t know. But now we are on our way to visit somebody sick.
My dad, grandpa’s son, is at the wheel. Mom beside him in the front. The mood, somber and serious, hangs over us like a dark veil. My throat closes up as stifling heat builds in the car. Even though it is summer and hot, our windows are rolled up because of the dust bowl our tires create driving along the rutted dirt road. Indiana in the summer was like this when I was young. We visited old people who lived on dirt roads that wound through corn fields.
The veil of darkness settles over us in the car and on the horizon. Dad turns on the car lights and continues to drive. I listen to mom and dad talk. The conversation went something like this:
“She has been sick a long time. It looks like this will be it.”
“She was always good to us. I’m glad we can see her one last time.”
It is the first time I understood the meaning of “it”. As a child, death is a difficult concept. People around me had died before, but I didn’t understand what happened. This night, in this car, with the veil of darkness around us and the stifling heat closing my throat, I shuddered in understanding. I gasped to breathe because I had suddenly lost the ability to swallow.
Grandpa sensed my awareness. I don’t know how, but he knew I knew what was going on and could feel fear envelope me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, I was in the dark dust drowning in knowledge I didn’t want.
Then, from the darkness came grandpa’s arm around me. He pulled me close to him. I buried my head in his chest and breathed deep the smells of life. He patted me as I calmed down. The veil of fear lifted. I could breathe without gasping. My racing heart slowed.
Not a word was spoken, yet we shared a defining moment of my life. The moment I understood the meaning of death.
Mom and dad continued to talk softly in the front seat. I remember hills rising and falling around us, the dust, and the darkness. But mostly, I remember my grandpa’s protective arm keeping me from drowning in the darkness of knowledge.
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Lord, help me hold tight to my faith that I will see my loved ones again in paradise with you.
