My Journey to Heaven: What I Saw and How It Changed My Life (5 page)

Obviously, I took myself way too seriously as well, if I was going to roll up my guns and shoot over the matter of improper toothpaste squeezing (and ironing undershorts).

Our biggest newlywed fight was about picnicking on the Sabbath. Now, these days I will picnic with the best of them on a Sunday, but back then, coming fresh from the house of the very Dutch and very staunchly Reformed Marjorie Besteman, I had some issues with it. My bride simply could not understand what was wrong with laying a blanket on some green grass and partaking of deviled eggs and lemonade on the Lord’s Day. Didn’t the Lord himself make green grass and deviled eggs and lemonade for our pleasure? Actually, what she said was, “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

After some “negotiating,” I came around to her way of thinking on matters of Sabbath observance, and I realized that if anyone was going to iron my undershorts, it would have to be me. And toothpaste? I just gave up and started squeezing the tube in the middle, right along with my beloved.

So as you can see, it was a big job Ruth took on when she walked down the aisle to take my hand and hear the preacher say, “Dearly beloved, we are assembled here to join this man and this woman in holy wedlock.” It wasn’t long after that she discovered she had a lot of work to do.

Ah, but I do love the fire in her eyes when she’s about to vent the air about something. Life is partly for fun, and part of the fun is working out the problems, handling the differences, and struggling for a meeting of the minds. Sparks can really fly when a red-blooded American man and woman in love face off over something that matters to them. You could even call these sparks fireworks—flashy, bold, and colorful, with lots of zing and tang.

Fireworks in the Firmament

One of my favorite holidays is the Fourth of July, when the burgers are sizzling on the grill, the red, white, and blue flags are waving six deep at the Byron Center (Michigan) parade, and the fireworks are exploding in the black sky.

I’ve already told you the lights in heaven were most like the aurora borealis, but fireworks are another reference point I can use.

Pyrotechnics boomed and crackled (except they didn’t make you want to plug your ears like they do down here), decorating heaven in shapes like cakes, spiders, peonies, and of course shapes and formations not of this world.

Every color you can think of—purples, reds, blues, silvers, greens, whites—interwove with each other in shining sequences. I was rooted to the spot in line at the gate, but if I would turn my eyes for a second, I would look up and see another arrangement.

Anyone who thinks they are going to be bored in heaven, plopped down on a marshmallow cloud in a pastel world of harps and floating babies, is dead wrong, if you’ll pardon the pun.

Even just the light show was utterly transfixing.

At times, a gigantic color-ball, in constant yet steady motion, with shades slowly weaving in and out, burst above me, kind of like fireworks, sort of like the Fourth of July.

Then again, if I compare the fireworks in Michigan to the fireworks in heaven . . . it’s not even close.

A Jar of Fireflies for the Journey

Ruth and I eventually figured out how to sort what really mattered from what didn’t matter at all, such as toothpaste tubes and who irons what.

Fatherhood came quickly for me, and my children and grandchildren became lights of my life.

While we were still in Heidelberg, Ruth became pregnant with our first child, Julie. Our German hosts cried their eyes out when we told them we had to return to the US. They had become as attached to us as we to them, despite the language barrier. We loved our time there, but in those days a tour of duty was two years, and our tour happened to be up. We packed our bags again and headed back for the USA.

The first time I held my baby girl, Julie, in my arms, I was busting my buttons with love and pride. She seemed light enough to float away. Somehow, I managed not to drop her. God blessed us with another daughter, Amy, five years later, and then a son, Mark, five years after that.

I’ve enjoyed every moment I’ve spent with my children, watching as they grew and watching their minds and bodies expand. I remember hours spent with them when they were small. I remember the sweaty taste of their cheeks when I kissed them. First days at school, their earliest artworks, the way they played the flute and the trumpet and the cornett—all these many episodes brightened my eyes and my life. All of the years I have spent loving my children, I would not alter in the slightest. The joys all of them have provided will never fade. They lifted my spirits during some dark and trying days.

One of the darkest times in my life was when our baby son, William John, died after just ten hours of life. I will tell you more about William and all the babies I saw in heaven later on in my story. For now, I’ll just say that anyone who has lost a child knows that our hearts were broken in a million pieces when William died.

Ruth and I learned to handle adversity the same way anyone learns: by going through it. We both determined that the hard things would be used as sealers rather than dividers of our union. Why life is so dark sometimes we do not know, but we do know this: what happens is not as important as what we do with what happens.

As a husband and a father, I’ve had a lot to learn about marriage, parenthood, love, and what matters most. So much time and distance has come between that moment and this one. We’ve had times of great joy and deep sadness, but always Ruth has been my beacon, illuminating the passages both dark and bright with her love and wisdom.

In Ruth, God the Father handed me a jar of fireflies for the camping trip of my life. “Here you go, son,” I picture him saying, passing me the beaming jar. “It’s going to get dark and scary at times. I will be here always, lighting your path, but here’s a little extra light for you, just because I love you.”

Today after fifty-five years of marriage, I am more sensitive to the thrill of her presence than I have ever been. When I come on her unexpectedly in a crowd, it is like a glad little song rising up somewhere inside me. When I catch her eye in public, it is as though she is hanging out a sign with the exact words of inspiration I need right then. When I drive home in the evening, I must consciously guard the foot pedal, lest I step on the gas too fast approaching the house where she waits for me. I still count the day’s biggest thrill when she comes hurrying from wherever she is to greet me at the door with a kiss. Are these the musings of a sappy old man? you might ask. Guilty as charged.

As I look down the road ahead, I see an elderly man and woman going into the sunset hand in hand. I know in my heart the end will be better by far than the beginning.

Basking Forever

After my trip to heaven, Ruth asked me if I had ever thought about her during my time there. Had I ever once thought of our children, our grandchildren? Just like Ruth, she didn’t pose the question defensively or with insecurity. She asked out of pure curiosity.

And the answer is, no, I didn’t think of my beloveds, as much as I adore them. In fact, had Peter, via God, given me the choice to go back to Ruth, Julie, Amy, and Mark, on earth, or stay in heaven, there’s no doubt I would have chosen to stay in heaven.

I would have chosen to stay in that wondrous place of dancing lights and color-bursting fireworks, enjoying every shimmer and beam and texture and tone.

Of course, it’s not just the lights and colors that are worth staying for.

It’s HIM. He’s the sun, the moon, the stars—everything. One day the Son will return and we will be better, finer people. Nothing shall separate us from each other and him.

Together, Ruth and I and those we love will bask in his glorious light forever.

I
had been dropped off by angels at heaven’s gate. If you picture yourself in my shoes, being nervous or being afraid, don’t worry! Your experience will be the exact opposite. I felt fearless and full of wonder. I experienced no nervousness, even though I had been dropped, literally, into another kingdom. If anything, I was totally serene and calm, more peaceful and at ease than I had ever been on my most relaxed day on earth.

Immediately, I saw an enormous door, several stories tall, attached to the gate, and a wall that wrapped around the kingdom in either direction, with no end in sight. It was the biggest door I had ever seen, not to mention the biggest wall and the biggest gate, and so forth.

The wood grain of the doorway was darker than an oak or an ash. If I could compare it to any wood on earth, I would say it was most like a rich mahogany. A plain design was carved on it, nothing fancy, but beautiful just the same, the way simply carved wood can be. Brilliant lights bounced and danced all over the length and width of the doorway. Would I consider it to be pearly? If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that, I’d buy myself a new golf club.

Well, no, actually, the gate wasn’t pearly, but save that thought and we’ll explore it later.

There was no top to the door, at least none that I could see. It seemed to ascend twenty or thirty feet upward into a cloud of mist and then vanish.

How did I know it was a door and not a wall? Another good question. For one thing, I found that many times I just knew things in heaven without being told, and I’m sure everyone else who has ever gone to that place feels the same way. There was no tour guide, pointing out the highlights and hot spots or offering trivia about the sights and sounds. There was no angel parked in the front, with a big “Ask Me” button pinned to his robes like we were at some kind of banker’s convention in the sky. You just know what you know when you’re there, and I knew this was a doorway.

Besides, a section of this massive doorway had a handle, an old wooden handle like something you’d find on a covered wagon. It was sturdy looking, about two and a half feet long and six inches wide.

Heavenly Travelers

There were probably thirty-five people ahead of me in one big line (it wasn’t as if there were angels or heavenly gatekeepers, calling, “I’m open on line five!”—the gate wasn’t some version of the DMV). I knew without being told that I was in heaven, and so did everyone else. You just knew where you were. No one was asking their neighbor, “Where am I? Am I lost?”

You could tell by the looks on their faces they knew where they were. Everyone was smiling. No one looked shocked or even awed. They all had a look of deep, thorough contentment. Maybe that’s why no one said anything to anyone else. We were all in a reverie of peace, joy, and perfect happiness.

The smiles on everyone’s faces seemed to say, “We made it! We finally, finally made it!” We were home at last, and we all knew it.

Now, Byron Center, Michigan, is as about as homogenous as any town can be, unfortunately. I say unfortunately because I enjoy the richness of a diverse culture. I love to travel and learn about other countries, peoples, and their foods and traditions. In Byron Center, everyone is the same shade of pale. I am one of countless Dutch men of a certain age and maturity. To be honest, you can’t throw a golf ball around here without hitting a Dutch senior citizen in the head.

Heaven was so different. Even the short line of about three dozen folks was a melting pot of colors, cultures, and costumes. I was wearing my normal “uniform,” a golf shirt and khaki pants, the exact kind of outfit I would wear in my everyday life. The smiling people who stood in that line were from all over the world and wore all kinds of different clothing. I saw many different nationalities represented, including Scandinavian, Asian, African, and Middle Eastern. How did I know those people were Scandinavian? (I knew you’d ask.) They looked purely Northern European to me, with classic Scandinavian cheekbones and jawlines. But to be honest, that was one of those things I just knew.

A couple of the people I saw appeared to hail from primitive African tribes; they were wearing loose, flowing tribal gowns and toga-like garb with sandals on their feet.

The man in front of me in line was Middle Eastern looking. Several years later, on a trip to Turkey, my feeling that my fellow traveler to heaven’s gate was from that area of the world was confirmed. This man was in his early sixties or maybe his late fifties. He wore a baggy, brown-colored caftan that looked like he had been sleeping in the dirt. Maybe he was a shepherd, or a subsistence farmer of some kind; he was definitely dressed like an ancient peasant, not a modern Middle Eastern person on the streets of Istanbul. His pants were slouchy and loose too, and he wore some kind of a headpiece or hat on his head.

Most of the people in line were around my age or older, which is the way things should be. Believe it or not, some were even much older than me. Most of the men in line were between fifty and seventy years of age, and most of the women were between seventy and ninety years of age.

There were three children in line, each of them around four or five years of age. These little ones were not standing still, but moving around, wiggling in their spots in line, like children do. They all had big smiles on their faces.

It’s terribly sad, I know, to think about children dying, and of course these precious kids had died or they wouldn’t have been in that line. Their loved ones were experiencing the heartrending loss of a child—perhaps the worst and deepest loss anyone can ever experience. I wish I didn’t know how awful that is, but I do. So what I’m about to tell you is said from a heart that has felt the wretched loss of a child. I don’t share this piece lightly. But I promise you, dear one, those children were delighted to be in that place. Their eyes were shining with life and pleasure, just like everyone else waiting for their turn through the huge doorway.

The Mystery of the Indian Baby

Very soon I would see many, many babies in heaven, just beyond the gate, but while I was in line I noticed just one baby. He was of Indian heritage, and was as tiny as a baby would be on his first day of life.

This baby, or rather the people surrounding him, was and continues to be somewhat of a mystery to me. You see, a man who appeared to be around fifty years old was holding the baby, but I got the impression he wasn’t the baby’s father. Actually, I felt a strong intuition that he was carrying the tiny boy for another person in line, a young woman standing in front of him. All three of them were Indian, but besides that, they seemed to know one another. The young woman, a beautiful girl of about twenty-five or so, was standing very close to the man and the baby, and every time I glanced at her, she was turned around, standing backward in line, and holding intense eye contact with the baby, as if she didn’t want to tear her eyes away from him for one second.

The mystery is twofold. As I said, I didn’t get the feeling at all that the man was the baby’s father. He didn’t look fatherly at all; in fact, he didn’t appear to be comfortable holding the baby. In some cultures, men rarely hold babies, even their own, but beyond that, I just felt instinctively he wasn’t related to the baby, or at least he wasn’t the baby’s father.

For one thing, the man was holding the little one gingerly instead of tenderly, as if he was afraid to drop it. So who was this man in relation to the baby and the young woman, who I felt sure was his mother? It seemed that the three of them had died together, but I suppose it’s possible they died separately. Others who have heard my story have had theories, that maybe the man was the girl’s father and the baby’s grandfather. Or maybe the man was their cab driver, and they had all died in the same accident. I just don’t know. But I did feel as if the girl had just given birth to the baby.

The second part of the mystery was why this young lady had needed someone else to hold her baby for her. One’s frailties, illnesses, and vulnerabilities end the split second one’s feet touch down on the holy ground of heaven, so even if she was recovering from a difficult labor, she would have been strong and healthy the moment she died. Yet I felt in my spirit that she had just given birth and was unable for whatever reason to hold her baby.

I know for sure I had a renewed body there. I felt so good. I was in terrible pain when I lay in my hospital bed in Ann Arbor: I was as weak and uncomfortable as I ever want to be. In line at the gate, I felt no weakness. Actually, I felt like a teenager again, vital, very awake and alert, strong and as healthy as a horse. Marv Besteman was restored, completely. I was better than ever, truth be told, better than when I was a strong, young buck, playing hockey for a short time for the University of Michigan.

Seriously, it was incredible, how fantastic I felt! When God tells us he’s going to renew and revive our bodies, he means it. Even later on, when I saw so many people worshiping God beyond the gate, I didn’t see anybody there with crutches, damaged bodies, missing arms or legs. I didn’t see anyone who had Down syndrome, or any kind of special needs whatsoever. When you get there, you’re going to feel like a million bucks!

This truth makes the fact of the young lady needing someone else to hold her baby hard to understand. Still, God knows exactly what was going on in that line and the circumstances of each beloved child of his, waiting for their turn through that immense doorway. He knows, and he’ll let me know when I go back next time.

At any rate, I was pretty preoccupied by my surroundings as I stood in line. Besides the music being sung and played (which was the most purely lovely sound I had ever heard in my life), there was the greatest laser light show I had ever seen in my life going on in the great bowl of blue above me.

The magnitude of the sky and my surroundings! I couldn’t take it all in. The colors were sumptuous and profoundly beautiful, and the lights? They were like 10,000 silent fireworks, all going off at the same time. There was so much movement and variety to the lights—I was in a state of wonder, from the time I set foot in heaven to the time I entered the doorway with Peter.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t paying close attention to the people in line. Most of the time, I was looking around, trying to take in the marvelous sights of this amazing place.

When I checked back in to look at the people ahead of me, I realized the young Indian woman who had been staring so intently at the baby was at the front of the line, waiting her turn to go in. The three of them had been about four or five people ahead of me. The man who had been holding her baby stood behind her, and I noticed with surprise then that the baby was gone. He had evidently gone in first. How did he get in? I don’t know—I wasn’t looking! Logically, I would suppose the older man handed the baby to Peter, but I don’t really know what happened. And then again, I had a feeling, confirmed later on when I saw so many babies beyond the gate, that no one had to hold the baby; he could have floated in all by himself. Yes, really. What was it Dorothy said to her dog in
The Wizard of Oz
? “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” I and the other thirty-five people in line were in a different world, and the rules of gravity and what people were supposed to be able to do at a certain age just flew out the window, right around the time we lost traction with God’s green earth. The baby’s mother was next to go in the doorway, followed by the older man.

The line moved quickly. But even if it hadn’t, people weren’t rolling their eyes and tapping their watches impatiently, saying, “Let’s get a move on. My tee time’s in twenty minutes.” Like me, the others were captivated with every detail of their new world, totally engaged, fascinated, and at ease.

The durations of time between when the giant door opened and closed varied, but the people ahead of me didn’t take long. It took thirty seconds to one minute between when one person went in the door and it opened again to receive another newcomer. (I took the most time with the gatekeeper, by far, because I was a special case. But I’ll tell you more about that conversation a bit later.) As I made my way through the line, the gate got closer and closer. Soon, I would be first in line to enter heaven.

The Pearly Gates?

The gates of heaven have captivated people’s imaginations since the early church, when believers read about John’s vision on scrolls, ancient to us but new to them. Through the centuries, the gates have served as the subject of countless discussions, and later on, books, movies, songs, and even jokes. Again, it amazes me how many folks, even believers, wonder whether they’ll get past the “pearly gates” and gain admission into heaven. What do the gates look like? Who is the gatekeeper? Is it Peter? And who is allowed through those majestic doors?

I can only report on what I saw, and whom I saw while I was there. As always, the best place to find the answers is in the Bible.

John wrote about the gates after experiencing a vision of heaven while he was imprisoned on Patmos, a Greek island. Bible scholars tell us he had this vision around AD 96, over half a century after his best friend and Savior was crucified and rose from the dead. The written record of his supernatural tour, along with fifteen other visions, makes up the thrilling book of Revelation. Isn’t it interesting that this last book of Scripture leaves us with a preview of our future home? We were made for heaven, and John’s vision, or “revelation,” gives us all a mental picture on which to hang our hopes.

The first details we have of the gates of heaven are spoken in John’s own words, and are found near the end of the book at Revelation 21:10–14:

He took me away in the Spirit to an enormous, high mountain and showed me Holy Jerusalem descending out of Heaven from God, resplendent in the bright glory of God.

The City shimmered like a precious gem, light-filled, pulsing light. She had a wall majestic and high with twelve gates. At each gate stood an Angel, and on the gates were inscribed the names of the Twelve Tribes of the sons of Israel: three gates on the east, three gates on the north, three gates on the south, three gates on the west. (Message)