I Once Visited Heaven

I once visited Heaven. Er, I guess that’s the best way to describe it, anyway. Granted, this is one of my more bizarre anecdotes. Truth be told, I’m not sure how true it is. There is no moral nor a great battle. But it is enchanting. I have kept the moment with me ever since.

Jacob’s Ladder. William Blake.

One month after I had become a Christian, I was taken to an old family cabin in the North Woods. For all intents and purposes, the cabin is scant more than a one-room fishing shack that my grandparents bought for one-dollar back in the 70’s. Still, they put up corkboard walls to give it the appearance of having a couple bedrooms. You walk in through the kitchen, barely wide enough to fit three people, and straight ahead is a window. The window is wide. From there, you overlook the lake and can hear loons and morning doves. It’s for these reasons many call it God’s country. Some even say that the veil between Heaven and Earth is thinner up there. I have half a mind to believe them.

In college, I began to pick up on Christianese. That’s when I learned that growing up “in the church” meant something different than what I had experienced. Those types of Christians went to church every Sunday, won sword-drill competitions in Awana and couldn’t watch Harry Potter. Instead, my family got to church when we could and often with a wild disregard for denominational particularities. One month we could be at the old Methodist church; but Easter, we found ourselves with the Lutherans. To put it plainly, my childhood was not enchanted by the Christian story. Instead, my childhood was enchanted by folklores from the American South East. In fact, my father had hung two porcelain Ochlockonee masks above our African drum set as a reminder that our family lived in lands inhabited long before (and after) us. We were part of a human tribe and we were our stories; humanity only survived by the stories we chose to tell. In this way, stars hummed as they fell to Earth asking little kids to be glued back into the sky. My house was haunted by spirits and our family often laughed at the antics of the other-wordly. For me, the spiritual world was certainly real; but real in the way stories are true: all stories are true, just some are more true than others.

Jacob’s Ladder. Rembrandt.

I remember waking up alone in a lightless room one month after becoming a Christian. The room stretched on forever in one direction—something resembling a hallway. Above me, on all three walls, were evenly spaced slits where light ought to have been pouring in. I woke up sleeping on what resembled a desk in the shapeless space, and sitting on what ought to have resembled a high back chair. I scrambled up to the slit nearest me, which was behind, in order to peer out into whatever was beyond—for all I knew at the time, it was a bright white light.

But it wasn’t just light beyond the room. The space beyond was reflecting light from somewhere else. I noted to myself that I couldn’t tell where the light came from. There were no shadows. Instead, a light cloud-like substance swirled along a gleaming white floor, something like fog. At the time, I guessed the floor was made of pearl—but a pearl so perfect it was nearly clear. The clouds met the light and formed rainbows that danced as the cloud whipped about.

Suddenly, I perceived a voice from behind me. Out of the dark, seemed to stand a being made of Light. Again, while the light should have emanated from them, onto the room walls, there was only darkness. The Light was tall, I’d say seven or nine feet. I felt it, as if speaking, say, “This is a special room in Heaven reserved for visitors. You are underneath the throne of God.” Looking closer, I saw my father, who had died two years prior, standing next to the Light. I hugged him. I turned back to peer out into the space beyond the visitor’s room. The Light continued to speak, saying, “one day, you will be out there, with us. But for now, you must stay here.”

At those words, I fell back from the window and woke with a start on the top-bunk. I replayed the dream over and over in my mind. I couldn’t sleep for the short remainder of the night. And as I stepped out into the living room, the light was beginning to peak over the lake. I went down to the dock and watched the sunrise. I listened to Phil Joel. I opened my Bible and turned to Matthew, and began reading with the intent of not stopping.

I had never read the Bible before then, so you can imagine how my heart raced when I read some of the following:

“Around the throne was a rainbow that had the appearance of an emerald.” (Revelation 4:3)

“The city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb.” (Revelation 21:23)

“Before the throne there was as it were a sea of glass, like crystal.” (Revelation 4:6)

I have kept this moment with me ever since, immortalizing it in a ritual. Every year, I make it a point to watch the sunrise with my wife when we visit the cabin. It’s a reminder to me that this world is storied. It is true, but some worlds are more true than others. Now, when I see the sun rise over God’s country, I am reminded of the thin veil between Heaven and Earth; a veil torn so that the glory of God can break in.