Encountering the Eternal

As Christians, many of us who have been saved have a wonderful perspective on eternity. It is filled with hope and positivity—a beautiful home that God is preparing for us, waiting for us once our time on Earth is complete. We often associate this with a peaceful passing after a fulfilled life. Funerals typically emphasize the message of reuniting with our beloved elderly relatives. We find comfort in the time we share with them and reflect on all they accomplished during their lives. After many years, they move on to a better place—a beautiful home, a fully restored body, and a peaceful heaven.

Like most, this was always a joyful promise. I smiled thinking of my grandparents with Jesus. It was the natural progression of a Christian life. However, I don’t believe I ever wrestled much with this until now. I lived with a blissful view and bumper sticker Christian idea of encountering the eternal. I never understood the costly hope that the eternal promise can present during the traumatic and untimely death of a loved one.

On July 17, 2024, I had no idea that my youngest child would soon face the eternal. I thought that God had delivered us from the dangers of my high-risk pregnancy. She was doing well, considering the circumstances. It was truly a miracle that my 1 lb. baby made it to Earthside. That morning marked my first day of recovering at home. Everything seemed okay. I felt assured that God was with my babies, and I planned to visit them once my husband got off work. My micro preemie twins were a week old at that point.

However, the urgent call came in, and my life began to change rapidly. We drove to the hospital at over 100 mph, speaking with our pastors along the way. Nothing could prepare us for the traumatic situation we were facing, but I remember we tried to strategize

As I walked in, I was greeted with the words, “I am so sorry.” That was the moment I knew God was taking my baby from me. In short, we tried everything. By 3 a.m. on July 18th, it was time for her to begin her journey to be with Jesus. What once felt comforting turned into a cruel life sentence. I would not be raising my daughter here; she would be raised in heaven, in the arms of God. That doesn’t “feel” blissful anymore.

Four months later, it still doesn’t “feel” blissful. I don’t look up at the sky with the assurance that my baby is fully restored. My arms feel empty, and God seems cruel. This is a side of faith that you don't truly understand until you have experienced a traumatic, untimely loss. Simple expressions of faith no longer suffice for a Sunday morning uplift. The hope that God can turn all things around for your good is hard to accept because it doesn’t bring my child back, which is what I long for the most.

Let me be clear: God did not give me what I wanted. He heard my cries but did not respond in the way I desired. This serves as a true test of my belief system. Is He still good? Do I still trust Him? Do I believe in the promises of eternal life?

Yes, even though I struggle with these questions, I do believe.

He did not betray me; He simply didn’t heal her in the way I hoped. Yet she is healed in a different sense.

He did not break any promises.

His ultimate promise is eternal life, and that is exactly what she gets to experience, just before me.

He still loves me and will work all things together for my good. He has given me a testimony, just not the one I envisioned.

"Jesus wept" is the shortest verse in the Bible. He wept for his dear friend Lazarus's death, even though he was the resurrection, and knew he would soon heal him.

I believe Jesus still mourns with me, even though He alone decided not to heal her Earthside.

I have an opportunity that situations like this only present. It's a chance to either completely abandon my faith or take God's hand, confront the reality of my daughter's death, and decide that He is still good. This truly represents the next level of faith—trusting in God's plan when my circumstances and feelings don’t align with that decision.

I often think about the miracles we read about in the Bible. As readers, we don’t usually consider the pain experienced by the biblical heroes because we know the ending; we see the victory. For example, I enjoy reading about Daniel in the lion's den, but I certainly wouldn’t want to use a lion as a pillow. We focus on the miracle, aware that it is coming, while often overlooking the suffering of the individuals involved. There are times I’m sure they felt as though God hadn’t come through for them, with their emotions not matching their decision to trust in Him.

Only through profound pain can we truly grasp this kind of eternal hope. It's not a distant, future hope; it’s the struggle of clawing your way out of a dark hole in search of a glimmer of hope. This hope isn't natural, it’s not merely a feeling; it’s a choice.

In the lyrics of Brandon Lake, this is, “my been through hell Hallelujah.”  “Faith isn’t proven like gold until it's been through the fire.” The devil wins if I let this destroy my family. God’s word is the truth. What he did on the cross is enough. Although I am experiencing extreme grief, my daughter’s passing is a promise kept. Not the ultimate betrayal. What feels like the harsh reality of eternity is God’s gentle whisper, offering a renewed more sophisticated eternal hope in heaven.