Today the question came during lunch, right in the middle of our Bible story. But it wasn’t the first time that my three year old has asked. Just yesterday we were working together in the kitchen when she started to sing, “This is my home. When I die I’ll be with Jesus and there will be rainbows all the time!” Last week she prayed that we would die together. I think her interest began about three weeks ago with the unexpected death of our young goat. So I understand where it is probably coming from, but it’s still a little unnerving.
This isn’t new territory for us. In a previous post, I described our approach to a similar season of curiosity when my son was three, prompted by the loss of a baby chicken immediately followed by that of my grandfather.
But this time around has felt a lot heavier. Our standard response has been that most people die when they’re very old. But then last week, in the midst of my daughter’s questions, a four year old boy from my Bible study class drowned in a tragic accident. Both as a teacher and a mom, how can I help but rehearse his panic in those final moments? And then, of course, there’s the chaos of the world, at large…
Yet here we are in our Bible study reading the book of Hebrews, studying God’s rest and anchoring hope.
So what is our hope in such a terrifying world where children drown and experience all kinds of other unspeakable horrors? I know that our hope is heaven and it will be more wonderful than anything we can imagine. But what about the journey to get there? That’s what keeps me up at night. What difference does my faith make for that? What hope can I offer my little disciples when I am personally living in such fear, compulsively imagining both the suffering of others and terrifying possibilities of our own futures? I know I’m not telling God’s story when captivated by fear, so I had to ask, “God, what is our hope?”
And then God reminded me. Two months ago I was assigned to teach those four year olds about the stoning of Stephen, Christianity’s first martyr, whose face shone with God’s glory in death. As I described in a previous post, I was practicing the lesson around our breakfast table when my three year old asked if God sent an angel to shut the angry men’s mouths (as God had with the lions in Daniel’s den). “No, this time God did not send an angel to rescue him… This time, God’s Holy Spirit filled his heart with peace and opened his eyes to see Jesus!” I immediately fell in love with this story’s power to shape our kids’ imaginations and expectations for God’s presence in death.
And yet here I was, imagining a child’s death without such comfort. But my heart was now open to new possibilities. Could the child who drowned have seen Jesus and been filled with God’s peace as had Stephen? Oh God, could it ever be? Could we ever rest in this assurance? Are there any other examples in Scripture of You accompanying people in death?
And then God reminded me of the fourth man walking around in the fiery furnace with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. And Peter’s peaceful sleep in prison while awaiting his execution. And John’s vision of Jesus on the island of Patmos. Though these three stories all happen to end in God’s miraculous deliverance, the men were nevertheless preparing for their imminent deaths when they experienced God’s supernatural presence. And then I was reminded of historical testimonies of martyrs whose tongues were cut out to stop their songs of praise during torture and burning* along with my own friends and loved ones who began hearing from God and seeing Jesus in the days leading up to their deaths.
And then I remembered my own earlier claim to those faith-filled four year olds: Jesus promised to be with his followers always, even to the ends of the earth. And the Holy Spirit helps us believe him.
Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Psalm 139:7-12 (italics added)
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.
God is with us; we don’t have to fear those final moments before Jesus brings our children home! Our fall into sin separated us from God, but this was the weight that Jesus willingly bore on the cross. He testified to this experience of desolation by crying out in his last moments, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But at his death, that curtain of separation was torn from top to bottom and we were given direct access to our holy God. At Jesus’ resurrection, death was defeated and the grave lost its power. After his ascension, the Holy Spirit returned to indwell our hearts.
The gospel of John declares that all who believe in Jesus [with the faith of a child] become children of God. So given my desire to comfort my own children, it is inconceivable to me that their heavenly Father would leave them to experience the moments of their greatest anguish all by themselves. Yes, they will experience pain and loss and fear. But they will absolutely not do it alone. Only Jesus had to endure that. When I can’t hold them, they will rest in the arms of the One who is more knowing, present, powerful, and loving than I could ever be.
This is my hope. This is our story. We need not fear or grieve as those who have no hope, not only because our physical deaths do not end our lives, but also because neither we nor our children will suffer alone. Jesus will be with us always, even to the ends of the earth.
* For those who believe these to be mere psychological realities, I have recently marveled at the extreme kindness (and brilliance!) of a Creator who would wire into our bodies the ability to disassociate our psyches from such terrible experiences. So whereas some might interpret this as meaning God wasn’t present in these circumstances, I see it as only further evidence of God’s great care.
