Do you suppose Jesus will sing in Heaven? What would that be like? Zephaniah said “The Lord thy God…will rejoice over thee with joy.” That sounds like singing to me. But, for the life of me, I just can’t imagine what it would be like to listen to the One who must have taught the angels to sing.

I think a lot of Heaven these days; but then, I guess I always have. I have a pretty fertile imagination; I daydreamed my way through school, first grade through seminary. So I can “put myself in Heaven” in my mind, not in some cultic, transcendental way, but just like a little boy dreaming of being a cowboy when he grows up. Only Heaven is not a pipe dream or a fairy tale, it’s a real place. The first person I see (in my mind,) is my Mom, the lady who led me to Jesus. The last time I saw her in this world, she didn’t know me. When I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to explain who I was, she jerked away in fear. If you have never experienced that, you’ve no idea how much that kind of broken heart can hurt. But when Mom meets me just inside the Gate, after tons of hugs and kisses, that last scene is melted away.

Then I notice a beautiful young lady standing to the left and slightly behind Mom. Mom turns as if to make introductions and I step forward and extend a hand and say, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She looks into my heart with beautiful, green eyes and says one word that is Heaven itself. “Daddy.” I should have known. She looks like her Momma. The handshake I had offered is quickly replaced with more appropriate expressions of affection for Amy Jo, the daughter I never got to meet, to hold, to rock or to kiss, the little girl we lost between Jesse and Jared. I can’t wait till Terri gets here. I can daydream what that part of Heaven will be like.

Then Mom says, “C’mon, let’s go see your Dad. He can’t wait to see you.” Well, that makes two of us. My Dad and I always had a very good relationship. But, after Terri and I got married (he loved his daughter-in-law, and Terri always said my Mom loved her more than she loved me,) after we were married and God called me to preach, that opened up a whole new world of commonality between my Dad and me. We had so much to talk about. Or he did; I had tons of questions and let him do 90% of the talking. I was always glad when he called because I couldn’t afford 2 or 3 hours of long distance. So, Mom and Amy Jo lead the way and I see lots of familiar faces and hear people hollering out, “Hi Dan, great to see you.” One of my preacher buddies says, “Glad to see you made it!” Even here, a comedian.

Then I hear a familiar voice, “Danny Joe!” I freeze in my tracks. I’d know her anywhere. Even though she’s young and perfectly healthy, though her hair may not be up in a bun, though she is dressed in white rather than a flower print, farmer’s wife dress that comes down below her knees, just long enough to barely cover the bagging stockings, and though she’s not wearing the thick heeled, black, Grandma shoes, I’d know her anywhere. Grandma! My favorite person in the whole world! After, of course, Jesus, Terri, Dad and Mom. She went to Heaven during my first year in college. I do not think I’m exaggerating when I say there hasn’t been a day gone by that I didn’t miss her. And my mind can fly away at times and imagine I’m There.

And I can sometimes imagine my Grandpa there in Heaven. Sometimes, not always. He was always old, very old. My earliest memories of him were that he was very, very old. He was deaf by the time I can remember, and therefore didn’t talk much. He wore an old, frazzled, blue sweater, year-round, regardless how hot it was. Something to do with poor circulation. His sweater smelled like tobacco, not a bad smell, just distinctive. I don’t remember him any other way than with all white hair, actually quite beautiful, a week’s worth of whiskers, a jawful of Red Man, with the unmistakable trail of brown flowing down from the corners of his mouth. Looked like two muddy streams running through a bank of snow. Because he was deaf, we never really had a conversation. But he loved me and I loved him. I don’t know if he was saved. My Dad thought he was. I certainly hope so. I just don’t know. I know there are no tears in Heaven. But what do you when you get there and find out…how does that work?

Then, I can see my Dad. He appears to be discussing theology with the Apostle Paul and Charles Spurgeon. I almost hate to interrupt, but Mom seems to know what I’m thinking. “Go ahead, they’ve got all Eternity.” I step up. “Dad.” He stops talking, looks up, then abandons Paul and Spurgeon. He rushes to me and we are locked in an embrace that goes on and on. Reminds me of a time in Fort Worth when I was in High School and had been a typical teenage jerk. We had talked things out, got right with one another, and stood in the middle of the living room floor and hugged and wept for a long time. Still one of the most meaningful times of my life.

Then my Mom interrupts and says to my Dad, “Later, Bud, it’s time. He’s waiting.” Mom tugs on my arm and I instinctively resist. “Not yet, Mom. I’m not dressed for the occasion.” Yes, you are, you’re dressed in His righteousness alone.” “But Mom, you don’t know what all I’ve done.” “No, but He does and He washed it all away. In His own blood.”

(I didn’t go see the movie. Didn’t want to. I heard it was a tearjerker and I don’t cry. Haven’t in a long, long time. I kept thinking of excuses not to go, so Terri went to see I Can Only Imagine with “the girls.”)

In my imagination, Mom firmly leads me to The Throne. Surprisingly, there is not a line. We go directly into His Presence. I can’t describe it to you. Why? Because it is too beautiful, too bright, too glorious? No. Because I am not permitted to describe Him? No. In fact, I would love to describe the wonderful Lamb of God.

Only, I can’t imagine. I just can’t. Not that I don’t want to; I am simply not able. Oh, I can imagine loved ones. I just cannot imagine what it will be like in the Presence of Jesus.

And I can’t wait.
Dan