What Heaven looks like
Taking the mike, he begins to pray. To intercede for one who not there; for the boy who lies in a hospital bed in another city, another state.
His number is 10. His name is Benji.
It’s a dark, fallen world where kids get sick and boys can’t run. Where bodies fail and parts don’t work. Where parents suffer, siblings weep and none of us–not one–can set it all straight. Ah, Lord. This need…
He’s praying, that man, and I’m looking at the circle. Seeing the line and thinking of Benji’s mama. She with four boys, I with mine. Little, my baby, is tucked up against me, chattering a streak clear through the game. Her baby…oh, he’s not down there, ruling the court. Not running with teammates or passing the ball. His shoes, they’re not squeaking, and his uniform’s empty, draped just there over a chair.
It’s silent in the stands. Row upon row of people, heads bowed, home team and visitors alike, they’re praying. “Lord, there’s a need…”
I’m looking, still, at the circle. In a long, ragged line, arms draped over shoulders, they’ve all come together. One team, blue and white, and the other, gold and navy. Soon, they’ll compete, throwing elbows, working hard. But for now, right here, they’re all on the same side.
Tears burn. Throat thickens. I look at the circle. And I know. This–this–is what heaven looks like. No teams. No “sides.” No opposing, just oneness. All for One, One for all and all in Him.
No blue and white. No navy and gold. For red, brown, yellow, black and white, we shall all come together and worship in His sight. Someday, in the land where children run, mamas never weep and the Shepherd shall joy over us all.
Please pray for Benji, #10, a teenager deeply loved by his family and friends who has cystic fibrosis. Benji’s got new lungs, you see, and would so love to run again. To play with the team. To take a deep breath, for goodness’ sake. Thank you so much, you praying friends, for helping to carry that load.