The idea that epilepsy, cerebral palsy or even my Tzeitze Disorder won’t be in my body when I get to Heaven breaks my joy. Seriously. Though I understand disabilities are perceived as “imperfect” so therefore, they won’t be in Heaven, I still want mine.
All I want out of Heaven is Jesus… and I met my Jesus because of my shambled body. Looking Jesus in the eye with a perfect body in my possession terrifies me.
To be fair, I often times forget this desire. When a 15 minute seizure wracks my body at 1am, the thought, “I get this blessing forever!” is the last thing on my mind.
First thing on my mind? “Dear God, please help me remember my name if this episode gets much worse.”
Second thought? “Lord, are you taking me home?” Though that possibility is so slim doctors rarely talk about it, most nights are met with some kind of test for my peace of mind that I have no idea how long God will allow me to love on this side of Heaven. When my body is in that much pain, the desire to be in that type of pain forever is a huge turn off. I’m still human.
But still, I met the Jesus of my Childhood face to face because of these disorders. I have countless stories of moments when loved ones remember me going crazy and all I remember is kissing the face of Jesus. Or days when I couldn’t remember my name but I was too busy literally hearing Jesus sing over me that He “knows my name”.
What most people see as a “disability” or an “inconvenience” I see as my first and final moment where someone muttered, “Meet the Lover of your Soul.” That doesn’t mean my life is impeccably perfect, but anyone who is in love with another human being will tell you- even the heart-wrenching moments are endearing and precious if they’re shared with the person that holds your heart.
Because of that, when people tell me the suffering will be over “soon” (Lord willing in another… oh…. 70 years?) I cringe. Not because I can’t wait, but because I can.
I met my Jesus because of the aches most people would call a curse.
I gladly gave God the right to the deepest, most intimate parts of my heart because of the pain that often leads me to consider the “joy” of going Home.
People often misunderstand me when I say I can’t wait to go “Home to Heaven”. They’ll pat me on the back and say something like, “I know, a painless eternity must be your greatest anticipation.” The reality is, that’s not what equates joy in my mind.
What makes me smile is the fact that some day, I’ll get to heaven and Jesus’ nail-pierced hands and scorn-pierced heart (which I’m ashamed I added to) will carry the words, “This is what pain looks like. You were so worth it.” My own pain will remind me of the value of those words.
I never want to give that reminder up.