Heaven Is for Real

by Todd Burpo

  out and take a look at this.”

  He emerged from the playroom and joined us on the front stoop.

  “Look at that rainbow, Colton,” Sonja said. “There definitely should be a

  big pot of gold at the end of that thing.”

  Colton squinted, peering up at colors pouring across the sky.

  “Cool,” he said with a nonchalant smile. “I prayed for that yesterday.”

  Then he turned on his heel and went back to play.

  Sonja and I looked at each other like, What just happened? And later

  we talked again about the pure-faith prayers of a child. “Ask and it wil be

  given to you,” Jesus said. He put that instruction in the context of a child

  asking a father for a blessing.

  “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, wil give him a stone?” Jesus

  told the multitudes that gathered to hear his teaching in the low hil s of

  Galilee. “Or if he asks for a fish, wil give him a snake? If you, then, though

  you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more

  wil your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”3

  Colton Burpo hadn’t seen a rainbow in a while, so he asked his heavenly

  Father to send one. Faith like a child. Maybe, Sonja and I thought, we had

  a lot to learn from our son.

  TWENTY

  DYING AND LIVING

  The spring of 2004 marked a year since Colton’s hospital stay. That year,

  Good Friday fel in April, and in just another month, Colton would be five

  years old. I always enjoyed Good Friday because I’d do what I cal ed a

  “come-and-go family Communion.” That meant that I would hang out at the

  church for a couple of hours, and families would come and take

  Communion together. I liked it for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it

  gave our church families a chance to spend some special time together

  during Holy Week. Also, it gave me a chance to ask individual families

  about their prayer needs and pray with the whole family right on the spot.

  That morning, I needed to run some errands, so I put Cassie and Colton

  in my red Chevy truck and drove the few blocks into town. Stil smal

  enough to need a booster seat, Colton rode next to me, and Cassie sat by

  the window. As we drove down Broadway, the main street through town, I

  was mul ing over my responsibilities for the day, thinking ahead to the

  family Communion service. Then I realized it was a religious holiday and I

  had a captive audience right there in the truck.

  “Hey, Colton, today is Good Friday,” I said. “Do you know what Good

  Friday is?”

  Cassie started bouncing up and down on the bench seat and waved her

  hand in the air like an eager student. “Oh, I know! I know!”

  “I don’t know,” Colton said.

  I glanced over at Cassie. “Okay, what’s Good Friday?”

  “That’s the day Jesus died on the cross!”

  “Yep, that’s right, Cassie. Do you know why Jesus died on the cross?”

  At this, she stopped bouncing and started thinking. When she didn’t

  come up with anything right away, I said, “Colton, do you know why Jesus

  died on the cross?”

  He nodded, surprising me a bit.

  “Okay, why?”

  “Wel , Jesus told me he died on the cross so we could go see his Dad.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Jesus, with Colton on his lap, brushing past al

  the seminary degrees, knocking down theological treatises stacked high

  as skyscrapers, and boiling down fancy words like propitiation and

  soteriology to something a child could understand: “I had to die on the

  cross so that people on earth could come see my Dad.”

  Colton’s answer to my question was the simplest and sweetest

  declaration of the gospel I had ever heard. I thought again about the

  difference between grown-up and childlike faith.

  Driving down Broadway, I decided I liked Colton’s way better. For a

  couple of minutes, I cruised along in silence. Then I turned to him and

  smiled. “Hey, do you wanna preach on Sunday?”

  Later that month, Colton threw me for another loop. This time, it involved

  life or death.

  Sonja and I have a theory: from the time a child walks until about the first

  grade, one of the main tasks parents have is to keep their kids alive. No

  forks in the light sockets. No blow-dryers in the bathtub. No soda cans in

  the microwave. We had done a fine job with Cassie. By then, she was

  seven years old and had pretty much ceased being a danger to herself and

  others. Colton, though, was a different story.

  As smart as he was about so many things, there was one thing he just

  couldn’t seem to grasp: if a human body meets a moving car, bad things

  happen.

  Even though he was almost ready for kindergarten, he was stil a

  compact little guy, which is a nice way of saying he took after his dad and

  was short for his age. He was also a bal of fire who, the instant we walked

  out of a store, would take off running for the car. We were terrified that

  other drivers wouldn’t be able to see him and might back over him. It

  seemed that at least once or twice a week, we’d have to yank him back

  from a curb or shout after him, “COLTON, STOP!” then catch up to scold

  him: “You have to wait for us! You have to hold Mommy’s or Daddy’s

  hand!”

  One day in late April, Colton and I had stopped at the Sweden Creme for

  a snack. The Sweden Creme is the kind of family-owned drive-in joint that

  is the smal -town answer to the fast-food chains that al pass us over

  because we’re too smal . Every little town in Nebraska has one of these

  places. McCook has Mac’s; Benkelman has Dub’s. In Holyoke, the little

  burg just over the Colorado state line, it’s Dairy King. And they al serve the

  same thing: hamburger baskets, chicken fingers, and soft-serve ice cream.

  That day, I bought vanil a cones, one each for Colton and me. True to

  form, when we walked out the door, he took his treat and darted out into

  the parking lot, which is only a couple dozen feet from Broadway.

  Heart in my throat, I yel ed, “COLTON, STOP!”

  He put the brakes on, and I jogged up to him, red in the face, I’m sure.

  “Son, you can’t do that!” I said. “How many times have we told you that?”

  Just then, I noticed a little pile of fur right out in the middle of Broadway.

  Seizing what I thought was a teachable moment, I pointed to it. “See that?”

  Colton took a lick of his own cone and fol owed my finger with his eyes.

  “That’s a bunny who was trying to cross the street and didn’t make it,” I

  said. “That’s what can happen if you run out and a car doesn’t see you! You

  could not only get hurt; you could die!”

  Colton looked up at me and grinned over his cone. “Oh, good!” he said.

  “That means I get to go back to heaven!”

  I just dropped my head and shook it, exasperated. How do you scare

  some sense into a child who doesn’t fear death?

  Final y I bent down on one knee and looked at my little boy. “You’re

  missing the point,” I said. “This time, I get to heaven first. I’m the dad;

  you’re the kid. Parents go first!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE FIRST PERSON


  YOU'LL SEE

  Most of that summer passed without any new revelations from Colton,

  though I’m sure we played the “What does Jesus look like?” game on our

  vacation, with Colton giving a thumbs-down to every picture we saw. It had

  gotten to the point where instead of asking him, “Is this one right?” Sonja

  and I had started asking, right off the bat, “So what’s wrong with this one?”

  August came and with it Imperial’s annual claim to fame, the Chase

  County Fair. Next to the state fair itself, ours is the largest county fair in

  western Nebraska. In Imperial and the towns for miles around, it is the

  event of the year. For an entire week in late August, Imperial swel s from a

  population of two thousand to somewhere around fifteen thousand.

  Businesses alter their hours (or shut down entirely), and even the banks

  close at noon so that the whole community can turn out for concerts (rock

  on Friday night, country on Saturday night), vendors, and the spinning rides

  and lights of a huge carnival midway.

  Every year, we look forward to the sights, sounds, and scents of the fair:

  kettle corn, barbecue, and “Indian tacos” (taco fixings piled on a slab of

  flatbread). Country music floating out. The Ferris wheel rising above it al ,

  visible from al over town.

  This fair is definitely a Midwestern event, with 4-H livestock judging for

  best bul , best horse, best hog, that kind of thing, along with the kids’

  favorite: “Mutton Bustin’.” In case you’ve never heard of mutton busting,

  that’s where a child is placed on a sheep and he or she tries to ride it as

  long as possible without fal ing off. There’s a huge trophy for each age

  group, five through seven. In fact, the first place trophy is usual y tal er than

  the little competitor.

  There’s definitely a down-home, smal -town flavor to our fair, as one

  lemonade entrepreneur found out the hard way. One year, this gentleman

  decided he could sel more of his delicious beverage using what you might

  cal the Hooters approach to marketing. After a night or two, a string of

  folks complained about the scantily clad female sales team in his booth,

  and a couple of concerned citizens final y had to get on him and tel him the

  lemonade girls needed to put on more clothes. Stil , it seems he did have

  quite a long line at his stand those first couple of nights.

  In August 2004, Sonja and I set up a booth on the midway to interest out-

  of-town fair visitors in our garage-door business.

  But as always, I had to carve out time to balance that business with the

  business of caring for our congregation. One warm afternoon during that

  fair week, al four of us—Sonja and I and the two kids—were tending the

  booth, passing out brochures and chatting with prospective customers. But

  I needed to break away and drive a few blocks over to the Imperial Manor

  nursing home to visit a man named Harold Greer.

  At the time, Harold’s daughter, Gloria Marshal , played keyboard on our

  worship team at church, and her husband, Daniel, was serving as my

  assistant pastor and worship leader. Harold, himself a minister most of his

  life, was in his eighties and dying. I knew he was closing in on his last

  hours and that I needed to pay another visit to support Daniel and Gloria,

  and to pray with Harold at least one more time.

  When you’re a pastor/volunteer firefighter/wrestling coach/ business

  owner trying to juggle al the pins without letting any fal , you learn pretty

  quickly that children are highly portable. For her part, Sonja was serving as

  a pastor’s wife, a ful -time job in itself, plus as a mom, teacher, library

  volunteer, and secretary for the family business. Over the years, we had

  developed the habit that if we weren’t formal y going to work, we’d pick a

  kid and take him or her with us. So that afternoon at the fair, I left Sonja,

  now seven months pregnant, and Cassie in charge of our vendor booth

  and strapped Colton into his car seat in my truck, and headed over to the

  nursing home.

  Colton peered out the window as we passed the Ferris wheel on our

  way off the fairgrounds. “We’re going to see Gloria’s dad, Harold, at the

  nursing home,” I said. “He’s not doing wel and probably doesn’t have too

  much time left. Harold gave his life to Jesus a long time ago, and he’s

  getting ready to go to heaven.”

  Colton didn’t look away from the window. “Okay, Daddy.”

  The nursing home is a sprawling one-story building with a huge dining

  room off the front lobby, which also houses a giant indoor birdcage fil ed

  with finches that flit and tweet and general y bring the outdoors indoors.

  When I peeked into Harold’s room, I saw Daniel and Gloria, along with

  three or four family members, including a couple I knew to be Harold’s

  other daughters.

  Daniel stood. “Hey, Pastor Todd,” he said as I folded his handshake into

  a hug. Gloria stood, and I hugged her too. The family greeted Colton, who

  hung onto my hand as he dispensed quiet hel os.

  I turned to Harold’s bed and saw that he was lying very stil , drawing in

  deep breaths, spaced at wide intervals. I had seen men and women at this

  phase of the end of life many times. When they reach their last moments,

  they slip in and out of consciousness and even while awake, in and out of

  lucidity.

  I turned to Gloria. “How’s your dad doing?” I asked.

  “He’s hanging on, but I don’t think he has much longer,” she said. Her

  face was brave, but I could see her chin quiver a little as she spoke. Just

  then, Harold began to moan softly and twist under the thin sheet that

  covered him. One of Gloria’s sisters stood up and walked over to the bed,

  whispered comforting words, then returned to her seat by the window.

  I walked over and stood at Harold’s head, Colton trailing me like a tiny

  shadow. Thin and balding, Harold was lying on his back, his eyes barely

  open, lips slightly parted. He breathed in through his mouth and seemed to

  hold it in, as though squeezing every last oxygen molecule from it before

  exhaling again. I looked down and saw Colton peering up at Harold, a look

  of utter calm and assurance on his face. I laid my hand on the old minister’s

  shoulder, closed my eyes, and prayed aloud, reminding God of Harold’s

  long and faithful service, asking that the angels would make his journey

  quick and smooth, and that God would receive his servant with great joy.

  When I finished the prayer, I turned to rejoin the family. Colton started back

  across the room with me, but then he spun on his heel and returned to

  Harold’s bedside.

  As we watched, Colton reached up and grabbed Harold’s hand. It was

  an E. F. Hutton moment. Everyone watched intently, listening. Colton

  peered earnestly up into Harold’s face and said, “It’s going to be okay. The

  first person you’re going to see is Jesus.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he were describing something as

  real and familiar as the town fire station. Daniel and Gloria exchanged

  looks and a surreal feeling washed over me. By then I was used to hearing

  Colto
n talk about heaven. But now he had become a messenger, a tiny

  tour guide for a departing heavenly traveler.

  TWENTY-TWO

  NO ONE IS OLD IN HEAVEN

  When Pop died in 1975, I inherited a couple of things. I was proud to

  receive the little .22 rifle I used when he and I hunted prairie dogs and

  rabbits together. I also inherited Pop’s bowling bal and, later, an old desk

  that my grandpa had had ever since my mom could remember. With a

  medium stain somewhere between maple and cherry, it was an interesting

  piece, first because it was a pretty smal desk for such a huge man, and

  second, because the part where you pushed your chair under curved