Assurance of Things Hoped For: Christians Will Meet Again in Heaven
“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” The first verse from the eleventh chapter of Hebrews was delicately stitched and framed on the wall behind the door. It caught my eye and gave me pause as I considered the double meaning. Yes, Faith definitely lived up to her name.
My 86-year-old father-in-law, Peter, had prompted this trip. We were spending three weeks with him in Maine, so why not drive to Cape Cod for a few days to see his older sister, Faith? The unspoken understanding that this visit could be their last laid heavy on our hearts.
The night before we left, we sat outside enjoying the evening breeze. The others had ventured off, leaving Peter and I alone. We sat in comfortable silence until he offered a tender glimpse into his thoughts. “Outside of my wife and kids,” his voice barely audible over the evening insect symphony, “my sister is my best friend. I’m excited to go see her.”
This seemed a rare moment of emotional transparency for a strong man who had always preferred to be the jokester, the class clown, the life of the party.
“This seemed a rare moment of emotional transparency for a strong man who had always preferred to be the jokester, the class clown, the life of the party. ”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, mostly because those were the only words that formed in the weight of the moment. If he noticed my emotion, I’ll never know. For he simply returned to reading the open Bible in his lap. Our visit to Maine was filled with times like this—long periods of quiet introspection, beside an octogenarian who has been a significant force in my life for more than thirty years, with staccato spurts of outward expression.
In all the years I’ve known Peter, he’s never tired of prompting people to ponder life’s mysteries. It didn’t matter if you found yourself sitting next to him on an airplane, singing beside him at a campfire, serving the poor with him in Nicaragua, or standing behind him in line for a lobster roll. Peter always relishes an opportunity to speak to you about Jesus. In fact, his deep-rooted commitment to growing God’s kingdom is what changed my life when at age thirteen I spent my first camp session in Maine. Over the course of that time and the three summers that followed, I came to understand what it really meant to have a personal relationship with Jesus.
Even though his ability to recall details of summers gone by has since waned, Peter’s interest in asking those questions has not. The first day we arrived during this visit, he pointed to the doorway and asked, “What would you do if Jesus walked through that door right now?” He asked me this same question again and again throughout the three weeks of our visit. I vacillated between temptations toward frustration and sadness when he didn’t remember my previous answers.
“Well, I suppose I’d ask if I was dead,” I joked a few times in the first few days. Eventually, I realized I could use each interaction as a chance to further draw out his thoughts on the topic and volleyed back to him with, “How do you think Jesus would respond?”
“Oh, I love thinking about that!” he brightened and looked into the doorway as if he could see the story unfolding. “I think he would instantly make all of us feel at ease, getting rid of any worries or fears in the room. And then, maybe he’d tell a joke or say something to make us laugh. Wouldn’t that be just like him to help us all feel truly loved and cherished?”
When we finally made it to Cape Cod to see Faith, it didn’t take long for the siblings to begin reminiscing. Perhaps it was their mutual lapses in memory or just their love for one another that pushed them to hear each story anew, relishing it as a treasured gift.
“Do you remember the time when you had that boy over for dinner, the one you were really serious about?” Peter asked his sister.
Her response felt swift and accusatory, “You mean the one you scared away?!” She tried to act as if her anger persisted, but her smile betrayed her. “Peter, looking all upset, would stomp down the stairs to come into the living room where I was sitting with my friend, saying, ‘Faith, now Mother has spoken to you about this too many times. When are you going to stop sweeping the dirt under the carpets? How will you ever take care of your own home when you behave like this?’”
Clearly still proud of himself, Peter grinned. “You’ve always loved practical jokes, Dad,” my husband encouraged. Mischievously, Peter prompted his sister again, “Tell them about the time you got called into the principal’s office.”
Faith, still blushing despite the event happening more than half a century prior, gave a quick retort, “That was my only time, compared with Peter, who practically lived there!”
After another round of laughter, she continued, “It happened when I was a public school teacher. One day, I got a note that the principal wanted to see me. When I walked into his office, he didn’t even lift his head to look at me. He just said rather tersely, ‘Miss Willard, I heard you talked to a student about God yesterday. I thought you understood that wasn’t acceptable.’”
“I thought for a few seconds and responded with, ‘Yes, I slipped. I’m sorry about that. But last week I heard you swearing at a student in the hallway, and I know we aren’t supposed to do that either. I slipped. You slipped. We’re both slippers!’
“At that, he finally looked up at me and said, ‘Miss Willard, get out of my office!’”
I could not contain my giggles at the notion of this prim and proper woman dressing down her boss in such a manner. With glee in her eyes, she told us how that same principal called her back into his office not two weeks later, asking her to take charge of the youth group at one of the local churches. Our entire visit brimmed with tales of memories like these until it was time for us to head back to Maine.
“I tried to catch my husband’s glance and noticed we both were wiping the edges of our eyes. Will we see each other again, this side of heaven? ”
“Can we have a word of prayer before you leave?” Faith asked after we’d finished packing up and putting the luggage in the car. “And may God be with you ’til we meet again.” I’d been scrolling absentmindedly through my phone, but just started to put it away in anticipation of saying our good-byes. So when she added, “May God be with you ’til we meet again,” I almost missed the gravity of the situation. I tried to catch my husband’s glance and noticed we both were wiping the edges of our eyes. Will we see each other again, this side of heaven?
If Peter had any of the same thoughts, he didn’t give any indication of it. He simply opened his Bible and read a few verses from the book of John. Afterward, with assurance of things hoped for and conviction of things not seen, Faith spoke a sentence I will never forget. Looking at her brother, expectantly, she said, “I’ll be waiting for you at the gate, Peter.”
Wendy Willard has spent the past two decades deep in the trenches of child welfare, initially as a mom to two daughters, then also as a foster parent and adoption advocate across three US states and Nicaragua. Wendy is a team-building consultant serving mission-driven organizations and families throughout the US. Her previous literary works include glimpses into her design and technical background (including HTML: A Beginner’s Guide and Web Design: A Beginner’s Guide, both from McGraw-Hill) as well as her passion for serving families, such as Adopted for Daily Life: A Devotional for Adopting Moms and pieces included in Daily Guideposts, Faith, Hope, & Connection: A 30-Day Devotional for Adoptive and Foster Parents, Mom’s Devotional Bible (Zondervan), and (in)courage. Find her at @gracefullyslathy.