The idea of heaven had never been attractive to me.
I had often tried to conjure an image of me and Jesus in heaven, but it would barely last more than a millisecond, and while it was there, it never brought me the hope and excitement I witnessed in other believers. I have been surrounded by exclamations of believers who were ready to worship Him all day long once they crossed the pearly gates. I have also encountered those who just wanted to rest in the presence of their God, to be in His glow. This would leave me feeling inadequate and 'not there' in my journey of faith.
Now, this pattern was radical to my existence because I am a creative soul and have never had any issues imagining what I put my mind to. I often escape to dreamland and experience my feelings as I travel from one scene to another. But this never happened when I wanted to envision myself in heaven. I often consoled myself that my faith was driven by who Jesus is and what He had done for me, so even if I was not excited by the idea of heaven, it was OK. But a little part of my heart always ached to rejoice with believers who spoke with such conviction and love when they spoke of heaven.
That was until it came to me in the most unexpected way, like snowfall in the desert.
Let me tell you how my hate brought me to heaven.
I hated my dad since I was ten years of age till the time I turned 28. He was an alcoholic who beat my mother in front of me and didn’t spare any abuse when it came to stripping her of her dignity. He started attacking my brother, too, so the family dynamics were unhealthy and unsafe.
I remember looking at the clock every day; as soon as it struck six, I knew it would be a war zone. I could hear the knock of his shoe, which made me want to curl up and disappear. A part of me loved him too, but only his sober side, which was so unlike his inebriated side. Two different people existed in one body, and as a six-year-old, I didn’t know how to relate to this shapeshifter. I loved him when he was sober and picked up the broken pieces when he was not. It was devastating to see my mother beaten to pulp when all she did was love and sacrifice for us.
I can still replay those scenes in my head, and it’s hard not to get transported back to the crime scene—to find myself as a small child in the body of a 35-year-old, like all the work on myself was for nothing. It would be an understatement to say that it changed the core of our existence. My mum had lost her life partner and my brother and I, their father.
I grew an extra organ in my body; this organ was full of anger, grudge, and hate, heavy, alive, and throbbing. It latched onto me so well that I didn’t see it as alien anymore. I co-existed with it and functioned through it. It affected my identity and mental health and pushed me into a purposeless life.
Thank God I met Him! Jesus convicted my heart at the age of 19 and became my anchor. An anchor I so deeply needed in my life. With that came the realisation that an alien was still sticking to my body. The double-edged sword of God’s word pierced my heart and asked me to let go of this burden. But how could I? I was already in the abyss, held down by a big rock tied around my ankle. How was I to get out?
I was struggling; it was sucking me back in, not letting me go. I had also nurtured this hate to be my weapon, a revenge against my dad. I lived with it and let it decide a lot of things for me. In this tug-of-war, I was the loser no matter what. But God doesn’t give up. He kept reminding me of simple, healing facts, and here is that list:
My dad was aware of my hate for him, and I used it to exercise power over him. This was not natural, and God kept reminding me this was not how He intended this relationship to be. I kept having conversations with God on the whys and the hows, and slowly, God untied the rope around my feet so I could come up and breathe. I saw that extra organ leave my body, leaving me light and lifted. He took that very stone and smashed it into a thousand pieces, and made a gem out of it.
Now, when I meet my dad, I kiss him on his cheek and hug him. I know how much he revels in these displays of affection. He knows this love is not transactional but free. He knows that my love has returned for him. When I picture us now, I see us holding hands and playing with each other on a green field. Smiling ear to ear, jumping and laughing.
This image is seared in my brain. God keeps pressing this image on my mind, and I don’t know why, but it makes me happy. It was only last year when I was meditating on this and talking to God about it. I realised that is my heaven. A heaven where my relationship with my dad will be how God intended it to be. Heaven without cracks, pretense, or extra organs. Just us playing. This is the heaven I like to imagine myself in, and I can see myself enjoying heaven with my dad. I don’t spend time conjuring it up; it just pops up and brings a smile to my face. This makes me excited for heaven.
I did not know that my hate for my dad and my lack of imagination for heaven would collide in such a way.
I did not know that my hate would bring me to heaven. But thank God it did!
Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash
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Wow... That was such a refreshing perspective and goodness of God which runs after us. Thank you for sharing, Priyanka.