Heaven Is for Real

by Todd Burpo

  COLTON TOUGHS IT OUT

  That next month, the cast came off. With the cancer scare and kidney

  stones behind us, I spent a couple of months learning to walk again, first

  with a walking cast, then with a pretty nasty limp, slowly working my

  atrophied muscles back to health again. By February, I final y achieved

  some independence—just in time for a district board meeting of our church

  denomination in Greeley, Colorado, set for the first week in March.

  “You need to get away,” Sonja told me a couple of weeks before the

  board meeting. “Just get away and have a little fun.”

  Now, here we were at the Butterfly Pavilion. A monarch butterfly fluttered

  past, its bright orange wings segmented in black like stained glass. I

  breathed a prayer of thanks that our trip had happened at al .

  Two days before, on Thursday, Colton had begun tel ing Sonja that his

  stomach hurt. I was already in Greeley, and at the time, Sonja was teaching

  a Title 1 class at Imperial High School. Not wanting to put the school to the

  expense of a substitute, she asked our good friend Norma Dannatt if she

  could watch Colton at her home so that Sonja could go to work. Norma,

  who was like a favorite aunt to our kids, immediately said yes. But at

  midday, Sonja’s cel phone rang. It was Norma: Colton’s condition had

  taken a nosedive. He had a fever with chil s and for most of the morning

  had lain nearly motionless on Norma’s couch, wrapped in a blanket.

  “He says he’s freezing, but he’s sweating like crazy,” Norma said, clearly

  concerned. She said Colton’s forehead was covered in beads of sweat as

  big as teardrops.

  Norma’s husband, Bryan, had come home, taken one look, and decided

  Colton was sick enough that he should go to the emergency room. Sonja

  cal ed me in Greeley with the news, and just like that, I saw our trip to

  celebrate the end of a string of injury and il ness being cancel ed by . . .

  il ness.

  Sonja checked out of work early, scooped up Colton from Norma’s

  house, and took him to the doctor, who revealed that a stomach flu was

  working its way around town. Through that night, our trip remained up in the

  air. Separately, in Greeley and Imperial, Sonja and I prayed that Colton

  would feel wel enough to make the trip and by morning, we got our answer:

  yes!

  During the night, Colton’s fever broke and by afternoon on Friday, he

  was his old self again. Sonja cal ed to tel me: “We’re on our way!”

  Now, at the Butterfly Pavilion, Sonja checked her watch. We were

  scheduled to meet Steve Wilson, the pastor of Greeley Wesleyan Church,

  and his wife, Rebecca, for dinner that evening, and the kids stil wanted to

  get in a swim at the hotel pool. There was zero chance of them swimming

  in Imperial in March, so this was a rare opportunity. “Okay, we should

  probably head back to the hotel,” Sonja said.

  I looked at her and then at Colton. “Hey, bud, it’s time to go. Are you stil

  sure you don’t want to hold Rosie?” I said. “Last chance to get a sticker.

  What do you think?”

  Emotions played over Colton’s face like sunshine and clouds in a fast-

  moving weather front. By now, even his big sister had been ribbing him a

  little about being afraid. As I watched, Colton narrowed his eyes and set

  his jaw: he wanted that sticker.

  “Okay, I’l hold her,” he said. “But just for a little bit.”

  Before he could change his mind, we al trooped back into the Crawl-A-

  See-Um, and I corral ed the keeper. “This is Colton, and he wants to give it

  a try,” I said.

  The keeper smiled and bent down. “Okay, Colton, are you ready?”

  Stiff as a board, our son held out his hand, and I bent over and cradled it

  in my own.

  “Now, this is super easy, Colton,” the keeper said. “Just hold your hand

  out flat and stil . Rosie is very gentle. She won’t hurt you.”

  The keeper raised his hand, and Rosie sidled over to Colton’s hand and

  back to the keeper’s waiting hand on the other side, never even slowing

  down. We al broke into cheers and clapped for Colton as the keeper

  handed him his sticker. He had faced his fear! It was a big victory for him.

  The moment seemed like icing on the cake of a perfect day.

  As we left the Butterfly Pavilion, I reflected back over the past several

  months. It was hard to believe that the broken leg, the kidney stones, the

  lost work, the financial stress, three surgeries, and the cancer scare had al

  happened in half a year’s time. In that moment, I realized for the first time

  that I had been feeling like I’d been in a fight. For months, I’d had my guard

  up, waiting for the next punch life could throw. Now, though, I felt completely

  relaxed for the first time since the previous summer.

  If I’d let my mind rol with that boxing metaphor just a little longer, I

  might’ve fol owed it to its logical conclusion: In a boxing match, the fighters

  absorb some vicious blows because they’re ready for them. And usual y,

  the knockout punch is the one they didn’t see coming.

  FOUR

  SMOKE SIGNALS

  Later that evening, with a swim under their belts, Cassie and Colton sat in

  a big round booth at the Old Chicago Restaurant in Greeley, Colorado,

  coloring happily while Sonja and I chatted with Pastor Steve Wilson and his

  wife, Rebecca. We had already chowed down on some terrific Italian food,

  including the usual kid favorites—pizza, spaghetti, and garlic bread.

  Steve was senior pastor of a church of between fifteen hundred and two

  thousand people—nearly as many people as lived in our hometown of

  Imperial. It was a chance for Sonja and me to get to know another pastor in

  our district and to get some ideas on how other pastors do ministry. We

  planned to visit Steve’s church, Greeley Wesleyan, the next day. Sonja

  especial y wanted to get a look at how the church’s Sunday morning

  children’s program worked. Rebecca divided her time between the grown-

  up conversation and coloring with the kids.

  “Wow, Colton, you’re doing a real y good job coloring that pizza!” she

  said. Colton offered a thin, polite smile but had fal en unusual y quiet. Then,

  a few minutes later, he said, “Mommy, my tummy hurts.”

  Sonja and I exchanged a glance. Was it the stomach flu coming back?

  Sonja laid the back of her hand against Colton’s cheek and shook her

  head. “You don’t feel hot, hon.”

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” Colton said.

  “I don’t feel so good, either, Mommy,” Cassie said.

  We figured it was something they ate. With both kids feeling under the

  weather, we ended our dinner early, said good-bye to the Wilsons, and

  headed back to the hotel, which was just across the parking lot from the

  restaurant. As soon as we got the door to our room open, Colton’s

  prediction came true: he upchucked, beginning on the carpet and ending,

  as Sonja whisked him into the tiny bathroom, in the toilet.

  Standing in the bathroom doorway, I watched Colton’s smal form bent

  over and convulsing. This didn’t seem like any kind of food poisoning.

  Gotta be t
hat stomach flu, I thought. Great.

  That was how the evening began. It continued with Colton throwing up

  every thirty minutes like clockwork. Between times, Sonja sat in an

  upholstered side chair with Colton on her lap, keeping the room’s ice

  bucket within reach in case she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. About

  two hours into this cycle, another kid joined the party. As Colton was in the

  bathroom, heaving into the toilet with Sonja kneeling beside him, a

  steadying hand on his back, Cassie ran in and threw up in the tub.

  “Todd!” Sonja cal ed. “I need a little help in here!”

  Great, I thought. Now they both have it.

  Or did they? After we were able to move both kids back to the bedroom,

  Sonja and I put our heads together. Colton had seemed to kick that

  stomach flu the day before. And al day long at the Butterfly Pavilion, he

  was his normal self, completely happy except for the strain of holding

  Rosie to get that sticker. Cassie had held Rosie too . . . could Goliath

  tarantulas trigger a case of double upchuck?

  No, dummy, I told myself and pushed the thought aside.

  “Did the kids eat the same thing at the restaurant?” I asked Sonja, who

  by then was lying on one of the double beds with one arm around each of

  our two green-at-the-gil s kids.

  She looked at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “I think they both had

  some pizza . . . but we al had pizza. I think it’s that flu. Colton probably

  wasn’t over it quite yet, and he passed it along to Cassie before we got

  here. The doctor said it was pretty contagious.”

  No matter what, it looked like our relaxing, post-turmoil celebration trip

  was abruptly coming to an end. And a few minutes later, I heard the magic

  words that seemed to confirm my thoughts: “Mommy, I feel like I’m gonna

  throw up again.”

  Sonja snatched up Colton and hustled him to the toilet again, just in the

  nick of time.

  When the pink light of dawn began peeking through the curtains the next

  morning, Sonja was stil awake. We had agreed that at least one of us

  should stil go visit Greeley Wesleyan and get some large-church ministry

  knowledge we could export to Imperial, so I tried to get at least a little

  sleep. That left Sonja with nursing duties, which included an almost hourly

  trek back and forth to the bathroom with Colton. Cassie had gotten sick

  only one other time during the night, but whatever this bug was, it seemed

  to have latched onto our little boy’s innards and dug in deep.

  We checked out of the hotel early and drove over to the Greeley home of

  Phil and Betty Lou Harris, our close friends and also superintendents for

  the Wesleyan church district that includes al of Colorado and Nebraska.

  The original plan had been that our two families would attend the Wilsons’

  church together that morning. Now, though, with a pair of sick kids, we

  decided that Sonja would stay at the Harrises’ home. Betty Lou, sweet lady

  that she is, volunteered to stay home and assist.

  When I got back from church just after lunch, Sonja gave me the status

  report: Cassie was feeling a lot better. She had even been able to eat a

  little something and keep it down. But Colton continued to vomit on a

  clockwork basis and had been unable to hold anything down.

  Colton was in the Harrises’ living room, huddled in the corner of the huge

  couch on top of a blanket/drop cloth with a bucket standing nearby just in

  case. I walked over and sat down beside him.

  “Hey, buddy. Not doing so great, huh?”

  Colton slowly shook his head, and tears wel ed up in his blue eyes. I

  might’ve been in my thirties, but over the last few months, I’d learned only

  too wel what it was like to feel so sick and miserable that you just wanted

  to cry. My heart hurt for my son.

  “Come here,” I said. I pul ed him into my lap and looked into his little

  round face. His eyes, usual y sparkling and playful, looked flat and weak.

  Phil walked over and sat down beside me and reviewed the symptoms:

  abdominal pain, profuse vomiting, a fever that had come and gone. “Could

  it be appendicitis?”

  I thought about it for a moment. There was certainly a family history. My

  uncle’s appendix had burst, and I’d had a wicked case of appendicitis in

  col ege during the time Sonja and I were dating. Also, Sonja had had her

  appendix out when she was in second grade.

  But the circumstances here didn’t seem to fit the bil . The doctor in

  Imperial had diagnosed him with stomach flu. And if it was appendicitis,

  there would be no reason Cassie would be sick too.

  We spent Sunday night with the Harrises in Greeley. By morning, Cassie

  had completely recovered, but Colton had spent a second night throwing

  up.

  As we packed our duffel bags and headed outside to load up the

  Expedition, Phil gazed at Colton, cradled in Sonja’s arms. “He looks pretty

  sick to me, Todd. Maybe you should take him to the hospital here.”

  Sonja and I had discussed that option. We had sat in emergency room

  waiting areas with a sick kid before, and our experience was that we could

  probably make the three-hour drive back to Imperial before we would be

  seen in the emergency room of a metro-Denver hospital. So instead, we

  cal ed ahead to Imperial and made an appointment with our regular family

  doctor, the one Colton had seen the previous Friday. I explained our

  reasoning to Phil. He said he understood, but I could tel he was stil

  worried. And by the time we’d been on the road for an hour or so, I began

  to think that maybe he had been right.

  For Sonja, our first red flag waved when we stopped at a Safeway just

  outside Greeley to buy Pul -Ups. Colton, who had been potty-trained for

  more than two years, had tinkled in his underwear. It worried Sonja that he

  didn’t even protest when she laid him down in the backseat of the

  Expedition and helped him into a pair of Pul -Ups. Under normal

  circumstances, he would have been indignant: “I’m not a baby!” Now,

  though, he didn’t utter a peep.

  Instead, once strapped back into his car seat, he only clutched his bel y

  and moaned. Two hours into the drive, he was crying constantly, stopping

  about every thirty minutes to throw up again. In the rearview mirror, I could

  see the heartbreak and helplessness on Sonja’s face. Meanwhile, I tried to

  focus on the goal: get him to Imperial, get some IVs in him, stop the

  dehydration that surely must be setting in as this flu ran its course.

  We reached Imperial in just under three hours. At the hospital, a nurse

  took us back to an examination room pretty quickly, with Sonja carrying

  Colton, cradling his head against her shoulder the way she had when he

  was an infant. Within a few minutes, the doctor who had seen Colton on

  Friday joined us, and we brought him up to date on the situation. After a

  brief exam, he ordered blood tests and an Xray, and I think I took a breath

  for the first time since we rol ed out of Greeley. This was progress. We

  were doing something. In a short while, we’d have a diagnosis, probably a

  prescription or two, and Colton would be
on the way to recovery.

  We took Colton to the lab, where he screamed as a tech tried her best

  to find a vein. That was fol owed by Xrays that were better only because we

  convinced Colton that there were no needles involved. Within an hour, we

  were back in the exam room with the doctor.

  “Could it be appendicitis?” Sonja asked the doctor.

  He shook his head. “No. Colton’s white blood cel count isn’t consistent

  with appendicitis. We are concerned, though, about his Xrays.”

  I looked at Sonja. It was at that moment we realized we’d been banking

  on a real y nasty virus. We were completely unprepared for something

  more serious. The doctor led us into the hal way, where there was already

  an Xray clipped to an il uminator. When I saw what was in the picture, my

  heart dropped into my stomach: The Xray of our son’s tiny little torso

  showed three dark masses. It looked for al the world as if his insides had