Why can't I just delight in the joy of heaven and the truth that it's there? Why do I resist it?
Or more accurately, why does the whole idea make me mad sometimes?
Heaven is for real, and the movie will be released this week: Colton Burpo's story of going to heaven and back before he was five years old. And I just really don't want to watch it. I believe Colton and his family have every reason to speak truth, and I have no reason to question it. It's not that I disagree. But I resist it.
I had tickets to see The Thorn, an easter depiction of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. I had heard that there was a montage of the miracles Jesus performed, so I didn't go to the show. I didn't have the emotional capacity to watch Jesus heal Jairus's daughter and bring her back to life. I resist it.
The story of Lazarus, the man who was legitimately dead for four days before Jesus restored his breath, brought him back, and then it was only a matter of taking off the toilet-paper-like tomb clothes.
Heaven is for real, and yet I resist all these tellings of this place I believe in. I resist this notion that God can prevent death, even reverse it. I need to lean into this, push my thumb into this sore muscle until I figure out why it hurts.
No neat and tidy answers in this piece, my friends. No conclusion, morals, or lovely takeaway. Nope.
Today, I can only give you a girl who would rather not study a travel brochure to a place she doesn't get to go anytime soon.