Heaven Is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back (10 page)

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 wouldnt be able to see him and might back over him. It seemed that at least once or twice a week, wed 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 Mommys or Daddys 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 were too small. Every little town in Nebraska has one of these places. McCook has Macs; Benkelman has Dubs. In Holyoke, the little burg just over the Colorado state line, its 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, Im sure. Son, you cant 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.

Thats a bunny who was trying to cross the street and didnt make it, I said. Thats what can happen if you run out and a car doesnt 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 doesnt fear death?

Finally I bent down on one knee and looked at my little boy. Youre missing the point, I said. This time, I get to heaven first. Im the dad; youre 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 Im 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 whats wrong with this one?

August came and with it Imperials 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 youve never heard of mutton busting, thats where a child is placed on a sheep and he or she tries to ride it as long as possible without falling off. Theres a huge trophy for each age group, five through seven. In fact, the first place trophy is usually taller than the little competitor.

Theres 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 usSonja and I and the two kidswere 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.

When youre 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 pastors 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 werent formally going to work, wed 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. Were going to see Glorias dad, Harold, at the nursing home, I said. Hes not doing well and probably doesnt have too much time left. Harold gave his life to Jesus a long time ago, and hes getting ready to go to heaven.

Colton didnt 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 Harolds room, I saw Daniel and Gloria, along with three or four family members, including a couple I knew to be Harolds 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 Harolds 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. Hows your dad doing? I asked.

Hes hanging on, but I dont 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 Glorias 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 Harolds 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 ministers shoulder, closed my eyes, and prayed aloud, reminding God of Harolds 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 Harolds bedside.

As we watched, Colton reached up and grabbed Harolds hand. It was an E. F. Hutton moment. Everyone watched intently, listening. Colton peered earnestly up into Harolds face and said, Its going to be okay. The first person youre 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 Pops 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 Pops 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 didnt. In fact, a frown crinkled the space between his eyes and he shook his head. Dad, nobodys old in heaven, Colton said. And nobody wears glasses.

Nobodys 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?

Im sure I do, she said. Ill have to hunt them down, though. Do you want me to mail them to you?

No, I wouldnt 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 shed stored in a back bedroom closet since the time Cassie was a baby, a box that hadnt 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, Id never told Colton that it was bugging me that he didnt 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?

Sonja and I looked at each other, astonished.

Colton, dont you recognize anyone else in the picture? I said.

He shook his head slowly. No . . .

I leaned over and pointed to my grandma. Who do you think that is?

I dont know.

Thats Grandma Ellen.

Coltons eyes turned skeptical. That doesnt look like Grandma Ellen.

I glanced at Sonja and chuckled. Well, she used to look like that.

Can I go play? Colton said, handing me the picture.

After he left the room, Sonja and I talked about how interesting it was that Colton recognized Pop from a photo taken more than half a century before he was borna photo hed never seen beforebut didnt recognize his great-grandma whom he had just seen a couple of months back.

TWENTY-THREE POWER FROM ABOVE

On October 4, 2004, Colby Lawrence Burpo entered the world. From the moment he was born, he looked like a carbon copy of Colton. But as with all kids, God had also made him unique. If Cassie was our sensitive child and Colton was our serious one, Colby was our clown. From an early age, Colbys goofiness added a fresh dose of laughter to our home.

One evening later that fall, Sonja had settled in with Colton to read him a Bible story.

She sat on the edge of his bed and read him the story as Colton lay under his blanket, head nestled in his pillow. Then it was time for prayer.

One of the great blessings of our lives as parents has been listening to our kids pray. When they are small, children pray without the showiness that sometimes creeps into our prayers as grown-ups, without that sort of prayer-ese, a language meant to appeal more to anyone listening than to God. And when Colton and Cassie offered prayers in their plain, earnest way, it seemed that God answered.

Early on, we developed the practice of giving the kids specific things to pray for, not only to build their faith, but also because praying for others is a way to develop a heart for needs outside your own.

You know how Daddy preaches every week? Sonja said now as she sat beside Colton. I think we should pray for him, that he would get a lot of good study time in this week so that he can give a good message in church on Sunday morning.

Colton looked at her and said the strangest thing: Ive seen power shot down to Daddy.

Sonja later told me that she took a moment to turn these words over in her mind. Power shot down?

What do you mean, Colton?

Jesus shoots down power for Daddy when hes talking.

Sonja shifted on the bed so that she could look directly into Coltons eyes. Okay . . . when? Like when Daddy talks at church?

Colton nodded. Yeah, at church. When hes telling Bible stories to people.

Sonja didnt know what to say to that, a situation wed grown used to over the past year and a half. So she and Colton prayed together, sending up flares to heaven that Daddy would give a good message on Sunday.

Then Sonja slipped down the hall to the living room to share their conversation with me. But dont you dare wake him up to ask him about it! she said.

So I had to wait until the next morning over breakfast.

Hey, buddy, I said, pouring milk into Coltons usual bowl of cereal. Mommy said you were talking last night during Bible story time. Can you tell me what you were telling Mommy about . . . about Jesus shooting down power? Whats the power like?

Its the Holy Spirit, Colton said simply. I watched him. He showed me.

The Holy Spirit?