I had been hoping that this time would never come, but it’s here.

We’re now looking at a series of “lasts.” Most parents get a set of joyous, but probably mildly sad lasts before the kids move out and leave the nest. Unfortunately, there’s nothing triumphant or joyful about our lasts. A couple of nights ago was, more than likely, the last time Ian will sleep in his room, in his own bed. We’ve seen him walk unaided for the last time, and pretty soon he will go to school for the last time. The tumor symptoms have increased with a vengeance, like an opponent who sees the endgame, and is determined to win.

We’re at the point where, while not known for sure, God’s decision seems to be clear. We’re walking our little boy home, kind of like how we walk him everywhere these days. We’re keeping close, aiding with each step, surrounding him with encouragement and praise. This is our calling, and I hate it. I have raged, dreaded and feared this time, but we have no choice but to be faithful with what we’re given.

And yet, I couldn’t help but to remember Jesus’ words in Matthew 27: Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me. I’m re-learning lessons of servanthood, and I’m finding it some joy in helping Ian with the simplest of tasks, with the perspective that I’m doing it for Jesus as well. There is a sense of duty as a parent, there is a sense of love out of caring for my son, but I also have a joy out of caring for someone whom God loves more than life itself, enough to die on a cross. As painful as it is, there is part of me that considers what I do for Ian as a privilege.

* * *

I’ve told some of you that I’m reading the book Heaven by Randy Alcorn. When Deb & I went to Maui for a week, we studied about Hawaii for at least a month. You would think that before now I would have bothered to do a study on the place where I will be spending eternity. I’ll confess that my primary motive was to be able to truthfully answer any questions that Ian might have, as well as make it easier for me to say “farewell” to him.

The passage I read tonight gave me food for thought:

God has never given up on his original creation. Yet somehow we’ve managed to overlook an entire biblical vocabulary that makes this point clear. Reconcile. Redeem. Restore. Recover. Return. Renew. Regenerate. Resurrect. Each of these biblical words begins with the re- prefix, suggesting that a return to an origination that was ruined or lost. (Many are translations of the Greek words with an ana- prefix, which has the same meaning as the English re-). For example, redemption means to buy back what was formerly owned. Similarly, reconciliation means the restoration or reestablishment of a prior friendship or unity. Renewal means to make new again, restoring to an original state. Resurrection means becoming physically alive again, after death.

These words emphasize that God always sees us in light of what he intended us to be, and he always seeks to restore us to that design. Likewise, he sees the earth in terms of what he intended it to be, and he seeks to restore it to its original design.

Religion professor Albert Wolters, in Creation Regained, writes “[God] hangs on to his falled original creation and salvages it. He refuses to abandon the work of his hands–in fact, he sacrifices his own Son to save his original project. Humankind, which has botched its original mandate and the whole creation along with it, is given another chance in Christ; we are reinstated as God’s managers on earth. The original good creation is to be restored.”

I’ve been very focused lately on what will be different in the next age, and how Ian will be different, that I’ve forgotten to think about what will be the same. I fully expect that he’ll have his same laugh that he did before the tumor set in (that I have trouble remembering right now.) His eyes in his glorified body will be the same shape, and the same color. He’ll have his same sense of humor. He will enjoy running like he did, and probably even more. We’ll have the same inside jokes. There’s a part of me the expects when we see each other for the first time, we’ll embrace and use our current greeting (“Courage and Kindness, son.” “Courage and Kindness, Dad.”)

Somehow, that helps. It’s strange just how much comfort I’ve been getting by getting clues about what will be familiar in Heaven…almost as much as by learning about what will be different.