A few years ago, when my aging parents lived in our granny suite, they bought a brand new stereo because they could no longer hear the old one. The old one was an attractive little unit, complete with record player and 8-track, the same model Noah used on the Ark when he wanted a weather report. I was explaining to Mom and Dad how to set the digital clock and what an equalizer was for, when my son Jeffrey, who had been admiring the flashing lights, the 100-watt speakers, and the wire mesh covering them, said, “Um, Grandpa, you should put this thing in your will. I'd kinda like it. You're not gonna live much longer anyway.”
Thankfully my father was 78 and rather hard of hearing, so he said, “Bill? Who's Bill?”
My mother laughed until she almost fell off her rocking chair, then recovered enough to say, “Well Jeffrey, the Bible says it's good to remember how short our lives are, so that we may be wise.”
“Surprise? What surprise?” said Dad.
That night at the dinner table I waited until my wife was halfway through a mouthful of salad, then recounted the incident. My timing was poor, but the laughter was plentiful.
Dinnertime was the one hour when our five schedules intersected. When possible, we would clear appointments, brew tea and linger long on dessert—whatever it took to keep the conversation going.
That night, amid unheated s'mores, I pulled out a long forgotten file. The label said, “Kids—Funny Stuff.” It included things done and said in our children's younger years.
The first item is rather cute. When Rachael was four, she forgot to put her Sunday school offering in the plate. “Uh oh,” she said on the way home. “I forgot to pay the teacher.” On a Sunday evening when Stephen was five we were talking about heaven. I could tell the boy was thinking hard. “When you die,” he said finally, “Do they take you to the body shop?” When Jeffrey found out how old Grandpa was, his eyes grew wide. “Wow,” he said. “You must be getting ready for heaven.”
We talked about heaven then. Partly because I'm approaching the age where I can't decide if I should live in a nursing home or a museum, and partly because the kids weren't afraid to talk of such things. Those who think about heaven aren't running away from life, they're running toward it.
“I don't wanna go to heaven,” said Jeffrey, who was too young not to be honest. “All we're gonna do is sit around and talk.”
“Where did you hear that?“
“Well, that's all you grownups do. I heard we're just gonna worship God all the time. With a worship band and stuff.”
“Ya,” chimed in Rachael. “And there won't be dogs in heaven. If Mojo won't be there, I don't wanna go either.”
“The Bible doesn't say dogs won't be in heaven,” I interjected. “It just says there won't be cats. You see, cats are sinners, but dogs are humble people. Look at them, the way they bow their heads, the way they obey. Cats look at you as if to say, ‘Hey, we're in charge, we don't really need you to run the planet.’”
Rachael rapped me on the knuckles with her spoon.
“Dad,” said Stephen, out of the blue, “How come the only time you use my middle name is when I'm in trouble?”
“Don't change the topic, Stephen Andrew Callaway,” I said.
Later that night the kids came one at a time into our bedroom. The dog lay on the bed, dreaming of things we'll never know and the conversation turned once again to heaven.
“One thing I'm gonna like is the fruit,” said Rachael. “There'll be tons of fruit in heaven.”
A thought hit me. “Rachael, what books are you reading?”
“The Chronicles of Narnia.”
“Go and get book seven, would you?”
Moments later I flipped through The Last Battle and read the final paragraph:
And as He [Aslan] spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before. 1
“I wish I had more answers about heaven,” I said. “But I do know this: Any place that God has been working on for thousands of years will be far beyond anything I can imagine. I hope there's golf and chocolate and green grass and colours we haven't yet seen. But better than anything, Jesus will be there. And if you kids are too, it will be out of this world.”
The children were quiet now. The dog stirred.
“Will there be stereos in heaven?” asked Jeffrey, interrupting our thoughts.
“Not the kind we have here,” I answered.
“Good,” said Jeffrey, grinning widely. “Then Grandpa won't be needing his.”
