20 Sep No Bee Stings in Heaven

It was a lovely day at the park, a time of play and fun and sunshine. Laughter rippled across the playground and swings lifted little legs high until they felt they could fly.

It was then that I heard her cry. In the midst of play, she had been stung by a wasp that had flown over from the woods nearby. Her arm bright red and hot, pulsed with pain, ripping her away from the joy of the moment and forcing her to stop. To yield joy for pain and play for self-care.

And even after hours, the pain remained strong, making sleep elusive and comfort impossible. “Mama, why did I get stung by that bee? It hurts so bad.” “I don’t know why, baby. I’m so sorry you have to experience this pain.” She hadn’t poked a hornet nest. She had just been playing, minding her own business, and the bee stung her. And for my sweet eight year old, nothing about that seemed right or fair. And it wasn’t.

That moment of pain arresting our joy and disrupting life’s pleasures screamed once more of Eden blocked off, cherubim with swords crossed, guarding the way to the tree of life (Genesis 3:24).

And I feel it, too. All around me.

Creation groans and hurls hurricanes as destruction wipes away raw beauty from the earth.

My bones ache as I crawl into bed late at night, evidences of the slow but steady aging that comes to us all.

Communication fails and sin stings, creating canyons of loneliness in the most intimate of our earthly relationships.

We cry out to be seen and heard, to be loved as we are and to build something that doesn’t crumble like a sandcastle on the shoreline.

And the serpent still wrecks havoc, whispering in our ears, “Did God really say?” And “How can you be certain that He will restore all things when life is breaking apart all around you?“

A few weeks later, we read during our morning devotion time about what the New Jerusalem will be like. We talked about gates made of pearls, of joy unspeakable, tears dried up and wrongs made right. And my eight year old, the one with the mark still on her arm from life’s sting, looks at me with longing in her eyes, “Mama, why doesn’t he just come?! Why does he take SO LONG to make everything right again?”

We talk long about how God isn’t limited by time as we are. How breaths and centuries are all the same to him. And we read His words carefully over and over: “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).

And it feels slow to us. So we stay in a place of longing, aching, and soul-crying “Maranatha!” with every day drawing us a little closer to his return.

And without denying the pain, but in the face of it, we use our imaginations to dream God dreams, to picture a redeemed world, a New Jerusalem, where weapons are laid down, tongues heal and don’t hurt, the sick are always healed, and the blind see. We dream of laughing and playing with grandparents who never really died and playing with lions who don’t bite and bees who don’t sting.

And the deep moments of goodness and grace: the hot granola fresh from the oven, the crisp breeze of Autumn and the swirl of multi-colored leaves, the warm embrace of dear friends – every glimmer of the hope of redemption reminds us that we aren’t home yet and feeds our desire for our true home.

And we wait with hope, in hope, even in spite of hope – for what He has promised He will do and what He has spoken He will fulfill. For when everything else crashes down on this unstable earth, the words of this song remain ever true:

“On Christ the solid rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.“

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.