July-August 1997
A Special Place in Heaven
Sometimes, when it seems like God isn't listening,
it's because we're looking for the wrong answer.
by Susan Stewart
Patience. What a stupid concept. I stared out the window at the gray tarmac. Slow-moving flatbeds carting drab pieces of luggage inched their way under the plane's belly. Attendants lazed against the jetway stairs. I was in Denver International Airport. Stuck. And in a wretched attitude.
I tried to snap out of it. I made a feeble attempt to read a couple Psalms to lift my spirits. I flipped back to Galatians 5 to go through the fruits of spiritual contentment. I got stuck on the word joy and shut the book.
Joy was one of the descriptors of a Christian-and that's what I claimed to be. But joy was the complete antithesis of any feeling my tired body could identify. I had been away from home for a week and had twice that much work waiting for me on my desk. I needed a fresh start in the morning.
Now it looked like I wouldn't be home until after 2 a.m. I had no patience, no joy, no peace.
As I stared blankly out the airport window, an Asian-American family showed up at the gate. Speaking in frolicsome, indistinguishable chirps, a little girl no more than 3 and a boy about 2 began chasing each other around the long rows of tired travelers.
They were waiting for the same flight I was on, but obviously they didn't share my irritation. If God was sending these kids to help bring me joy, it was as welcome a remedy as a dose of chemotherapy.
The toddlers were at peace and full of the joy of living. They couldn't define patience, but they possessed it in measures out of proportion to their size.
Watching them, I started getting jealous of their joy. No wonder Jesus told us to become like little children. But how? I felt like a camel gazing in consternation at the needle's eye. Grown-up impatience had eroded my childlike joy.
God, please, I need joy! But God, along with United Airlines, had obviously forgotten me here at DIA. So, trying to get away from the cheerfulness, I began restlessly roaming Gate 24A. That's when I discovered a pair of tiny twins wiggling sleepily on the hard terminal chairs.
Jenny and Maylin were from New York. They had been up since early that morning and were nearing the 24-hour mark.
An exhausted aunt was taking them to visit their mother in L.A. She, too, had met with delay after delay. I overheard her conversation with a flight attendant and realized she would need some assistance getting on the plane -- three carry-on bags and two carry-on kids.
In the midst of my self-pity, I was shocked when I heard myself asking, "Need some help?"
A wave of unmeasurable relief washed over Aunt Mary's face, and when the call for preboarding finally came, there I was, stuffed animals in tow, a sleeping 5-year-old in my arms.
As I felt the child's breath gently warm my cheek, I began to thaw out of my numbness. I began to feel the first brewings of lost joy stirring in my body. Holding this precious child was quickly erasing the memory of my irritation. Is it possible that God was listening, but giving me his own answer?
As I tucked Maylin in his seat with a little blue pillow, Aunt Mary turned to me and said, "There's got to be a special place in heaven for people like you."
People like me? I almost laughed aloud. People like me who fuss and fume when things don't go according to plan? People like me who expect Jesus to function on their timetable? People like me who forget that God gives joy when we give in?
Ah, yes. People like me. We'll need a special place where the reminders of God's joy are scattered like wildflowers. Where children's dreams and angels' songs wash away impatience. Where joy radiates from God's glory.
I smiled back at weary Aunt Mary and said: "I sure hope there is. God knows I need a special place!"
Don't we all.