My 15-year-old got in the car after another late soccer practice. Under the glow of the parking lot lights, I could see his red cheeks and sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Carting my sons around to various practices and sporting events can feel like a Groundhog Day-esque experience — same drill, different day — but something about this night landed differently.

I looked at my firstborn and was undone with awe at the remarkable person he has become. So very handsome and smart and strong. Hardworking, respectful, and fun. I love the way he jokes with me and also shows affection. (Teenagers who hug their mamas are a treasure!) I could say the same thing about my other two boys.

Turning on the main boulevard toward home, I started to cry.

Tears flooded my cheeks, not just at the wonder of being a mom and watching babies grow into young men who I love (and also really like); I cried because my dad never got to see it.

It was my father’s birthday, the fourteenth he’s celebrated in heaven instead of having lemon meringue pie at Marie Calendar’s or garlic bread and extra meat sauce at Vince’s Spaghetti. I thought about my dad all day. Missed him. Wished I could see him. But after many years, the once intense grief now felt more like a gentle longing — until Noah got in the car.

Suddenly a new dimension of loss erupted like a long-dormant volcano.

It wasn’t just that my dad had missed out on more than a decade of holidays and baseball games, graduations, milestone birthdays, and competitive card games. I was keenly aware of how he’d missed out on knowing us.

And isn’t that our deepest longing? To be known?

My two oldest boys have grown in stature since their grandfather’s passing, from babes in diapers to muscular bodies that tower over me. (My youngest wasn’t even born yet.) But they’ve also grown leaps and bounds in personhood. Jude with his witty sense of humor and tender heart for Jesus. Elias with his endless words and entrepreneurial spirit. Noah with his quiet grit and excellence in all he does. And their Grandpa Ralph has missed all of it.

Then the ache went deeper. Not only are my sons growing and changing day by day, but so am I. I’m a different person than I was fourteen years ago. If only I could relate to my dad from the place of healing and groundedness in Jesus that I now live in. If only my dad could see how 28-year-old Becky was just a shadow of who 42-year-old Becky would become. If only we hadn’t missed out on so much time together…

I poured out all my sorrow to Jesus. Then He said to my spirit, You’re not missing out. You’re just waiting.

With that, peace and joy flooded my heart — not erasing my grief but coloring it with fresh hope for the family reunion awaiting me. A time when all the tension and turmoil that clouded my relationship with my dad will be replaced by wholeness and perfect love. A time when grandsons and grandpa will know and appreciate the fullness of who God created them each to be. A time when hours and months and years will never feel lost or wasted, only enjoyed and redeemed.

Heaven is not a fairytale ending that only exists in storybooks or a man-made silver lining. Heaven is real. Fixing our hope on the restoration to come completely changes our experience in the waiting.

Paul writes, “For we have heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and your love for all of God’s people, which come from your confident hope of what God has reserved for you in heaven” (Colossians 1:4-5 NLT).

Do you have confident hope for what God is storing up for you in heaven?

Later in his letter, Paul affirms the importance of keeping the truth of heaven in the forefront of our minds:

“Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God’s right hand. Think about the things of heaven, not the things of earth. For you died to this life, and your real life is hidden with Christ in God.”
Colossians 3:1-3

Our real life is not the one here on earth, marred by loss and brokenness. Our real life is the one to come!

What grief weighs heavy on your heart today? What do you feel like you’re missing out on? What has your soul groaning, “It’s not supposed to be this way?” Tell Jesus about it. Tell Him everything that makes you sad and achy and wish it would be different. Then open your heart to receive what He wants you to know about it.

When we think about the things of heaven, our waiting is weighted with joyful expectancy.

One day my family will be reunited and restored. One day we will truly know and be known by my dad.

Thankfully we don’t have to wait for that to be true with our Heavenly Father. He already sees my children, pursues time with them, and delights in who they are becoming. The Father already knows me fully, loves me perfectly, and works all things together for my good.

We never have to wait for that to be true.

 

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