From the kitchen, I crossed the dining room to the front door and was astonished to see a rainbow so bright, so vivid, that it looked like an artist’s painting of the Perfect Rainbow. Or a kid with a brand-new box of crayons illustrating his science lesson: ROY G BIV. Every color sharply divided from the next, and the whole arc blazing against a perfectly blue sky.
“Did it rain and I missed it?” I asked Sonja.
She laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Colton was down the hall in the playroom. “Hey, Colton,” I called. “Come 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 will 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, will give him a stone?” Jesus told the multitudes that gathered to hear his teaching in the low hills of Galilee. “Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will 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 fell in April, and in just another month, Colton would be five years old. I always enjoyed Good Friday because I’d do what I called 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. Still small 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 mulling 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?”
“Well, 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 all 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 still 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 ball 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 small-town answer to the fast-food chains that all pass us over because we’re too small. 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 all serve the same thing: hamburger baskets, chicken fingers, and soft-serve ice cream.
That day, I bought vanilla 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 yelled, “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 followed 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?
Finally 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 swells 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 all, visible from all over town.
This fair is definitely a Midwestern event, with 4-H livestock judging for best bull, 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 falling off. There’s a huge trophy for each age group, five through seven. In fact, the first place trophy is usually taller than the little competitor.
There’s definitely a down-home, small-town flavor to our fair, as one lemonade entrepreneur found out the hard way. One year, this gentleman decided he could sell more of his delicious beverage using what you might call 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 finally had to get on him and tell him the lemonade girls needed to put on more clothes. Still, 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, all 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 Marshall, 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 all the pins without letting any fall, you learn pretty quickly that children are highly portable. For her part, Sonja was serving as a pastor’s wife, a full-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 formally 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 well 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 filled with finches that flit and tweet and generally 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 hellos.
I turned to Harold’s bed and saw that he was lying very still, 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 Colton 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 ball 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 small desk for such a huge man, and second, because the part where you pushed your chair under curved around you instead of being a straight edge like an ordinary desk. When I was a teenager and knee-deep in wood shop at school, I spent many hours in my parents’ garage, refinishing Pop’s desk. Then I moved it into my room, a sweet reminder of a salt-of-the-earth man.
From the time I put the desk into service, I kept a photo of Pop in the top left drawer and pulled it out every now and then to reminisce. It was the last picture ever taken of my grandfather; it showed him at age sixty-one, with white hair and glasses. When Sonja and I married, the desk and the photo became part of our household.
After Colton started talking about having met Pop in heaven, I noticed that he gave specific physical details about what Jesus looked like, and he also described his unborn sister as “a little smaller than Cassie, with dark hair.” But when I asked him what Pop looked like, Colton would talk mainly about his clothes and the size of his wings. When I asked him about facial features, though, he got kind of vague. I have to admit, it was kind of bugging me.
One day not long after our drive to Benkelman, I called Colton down to the basement and pulled my treasured photo of Pop out of the drawer.
“This is how I remember Pop,” I said.
Colton took the frame, held it in both hands, and gazed at the photo for a minute or so. I waited for his face to light up in recognition, but it didn’t. In fact, a frown crinkled the space between his eyes and
he shook his head. “Dad, nobody’s old in heaven,” Colton said. “And nobody wears glasses.”
Then he turned around and marched up the stairs.
Nobody’s old in heaven . . .
That statement got me thinking. Sometime later, I called my mom in Ulysses. “Hey, do you have pictures of Pop when he was a young man?”
“I’m sure I do,” she said. “I’ll have to hunt them down, though. Do you want me to mail them to you?”
“No, I wouldn’t want them to get lost. Just make a copy of one and mail that.”
Several weeks passed. Then one day, I opened the mailbox to find an envelope from Mom containing a Xerox copy of an old black-and-white photograph. I learned later that Mom had dug it out of a box that she’d stored in a back bedroom closet since the time Cassie was a baby, a box that hadn’t seen daylight since two years before Colton was born.
There were four people in the picture, and Mom had written an accompanying note explaining who they were: My Grandma Ellen, in her twenties in the photo, but now in her eighties and still living in Ulysses. My family had last seen her just a couple of months before. The photo also showed my mom as a baby girl, about eighteen months old; my Uncle Bill, who was about six; and Pop, a handsome fellow, twenty-nine years young when the photo was snapped in 1943.
Of course, I’d never told Colton that it was bugging me that he didn’t seem to recognize Pop from my old keepsake photo. That evening, Sonja and I were sitting in the front room when I called Colton to come upstairs. It took him a while to make his appearance, and when he did, I pulled out the photocopied picture Mom had sent.
“Hey, come here and take a look at this, Colton,” I said, holding the paper out for him. “What do you think?”
He took the picture from my hand, looked down, and then looked back at me, eyes full of surprise. “Hey!” he said happily. “How did you get a picture of Pop?”
Heaven Is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back Page 10