deb roush

I have it in my head that I’m going to Heaven, and that at some point, my sister Jennifer, who is my best friend, will be there too. How am I so sure? Because I’m fairly certain we have been there before. Together.

I was about 12, so that would make Jennifer, four years my junior, only eight, when our family embarked on one of our frequent trips to a campground at Ohiopyle State Park in Pennsylvania, where we lived at the time. The tent had been erected, and Mom was puttering around assembling dinner items on the Coleman stove while Dad organized firewood. That left Jennifer and I to investigate our surroundings.

We headed to the dense woods behind the campsite, discovering the longest vine to swing Tarzan-like from until our arms tired. And then, side-by-side, we forged our way deeper into the woods. I’ll admit that it is then that my memory becomes hazy. After swinging from the vine, I’m not sure I can separate what was real from fantasy. But here’s how I think it happened: We traversed a tall hill — one that seemed to magically appear from nowhere — eventually reaching its pinnacle. And when we arrived, we witnessed the most amazing field of seemingly endless, brilliant, blooming sunshine-yellow flowers. The experience was breathtaking. The sky was impossibly fluorescent blue, and there was an overwhelming feeling of quiet and calm. We breathed the freshest of air. We tromped in the softest of grass. The beauty of the experience was not simply the scenery … it was the emotion. I do not recall the trip down the mountain, but I do know we searched for hours for that spot again the next day. We couldn’t find it. Then, or ever. Eerily, it was like it never existed.

Though Jennifer and I talk daily, I never thought she remembered that experience, and I didn’t ask her about it.  Perhaps I did not even trust it had happened. But a couple of years ago, she initiated a conversation about it. “Do you think that might have been something like Heaven?” she inquired. Her words made my heart race. It was real! The word I can use to best describe that day on the mountain is haunting – but in the sweetest way. The way that God uses to remind us that He exists. That He chose to tell Jennifer and me – on that same day – that we might be together forever is reassuring.

I began penning this story not too long after Jennifer and I had our talk, but could never finish it. I struggled bringing the essay around to its purpose, the lesson or a clever conclusion. Then my daughter Rene, 17, came home from church tonight and said she had stayed late to talk to her youth minister, Tyler, about a fear of dying. Since these essays are intended to be a legacy of some kind for my children, to share a little of the real me with them, I immediately searched my computer files for this story so I could finally complete it. The ending, it turns out, is so simple. It was just waiting for the right time to be written.

Rene, don’t be afraid to die. There is a Heaven. It is beautiful. I don’t know all the details, but Aunt Jenny and I will be there. And we will be together. Have faith.