I read a book by Mitch Albom once that had a scene when a character arrives in heaven. I don’t know which book it was, and I’m not going to look it up because I don’t want to encourage anyone to go to Mitch Albom to learn about heaven (go here instead), but nevertheless, this scene has stayed in my head for many years now.
In my memory, the scene goes something like this: a person arrives in heaven and finds himself in a large, green field or among grassy hillsides, something pastoral and lovely, with the sun shining and a fresh breeze and low humidity. Just a perfect day all around. He rises to his feet and finds that he feels surprisingly energetic and full of life. He looks around him at the wide expanse of green and he begins to move. Very quickly, his walk turns into a jog, and within moments he is running full-out, amazed at the strength and energy in his legs as they pump furiously and propel him faster than he’s moved in many decades. He is exhilarated by the sun on his face and the wind in his hair and the freedom to run fast with the joy and abandonment of a child.
When I read this scene more than twenty years ago, I had a hard time identifying with it. I understood that this character probably was rejoicing in having a new body, and was reliving the easy joy of running that he remembered from his own childhood, but I also remember thinking, “Hmm, I wonder what my biggest joy in heaven will be? I can’t image it’ll be running.” After all, the good Lord knew that I didn’t even enjoy running all that much here on earth, so probably that wouldn’t be a priority for me in heaven, either.
But even though I didn’t fully understand it, that scene in an otherwise forgotten book has stuck with me for all these years. And now I see that there’s a lot of truth in it, but that realization has come with time, maturity—and pain.
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Great and Noble Tasks 