Crammed with Heaven is a monthly column in which Jenni Pretorius Hill shares stories of hope which bring Heaven’s perspective to Earth
When I was five-years old, I had an experience with Jesus that marked me for life. It was so real that I’ve never doubted God’s existence, and neither have I questioned His love for me. When we rely on information about God, or someone else’s history with Him, rather than establishing and growing our own relationship, life’s storms can threaten our anchor of certainty.
I say I was five simply because I remember the house we lived in when it happened, and I know I lived there up until that age. Perhaps I was younger – I can’t be certain – but it is one of the earliest memories I have from my childhood. My family is from a long line of committed Anglicans, and once a year our church of St Katherines gathered for a picnic at a park-like location somewhere in our town. It must have been a very happy event, because I can remember anticipating it for weeks prior. We would attend church, and then proceed to the venue afterwards for our picnic lunch.
But when the day arrived, I woke up sick. I was too ill to attend church, and I suspect my parents suggested that I might feel better if I stayed in bed, not wanting to extinguish my hope for the outing later. I didn’t improve. I was vomiting, with a high temperature, and feeling too dreadful to consider getting out of bed. I cried bitter tears as the realisation hit that it would be impossible for me to attend the picnic in such a state and that I would have to wait another year before it came around again.
My parents, having done all they could to comfort me, left me alone in my room. That’s when Jesus sat down on my bed; at least, that’s what it felt like. I didn’t see Him, but I knew He was there because my anguished tears dried up and I was overcome with such great joy and love that I felt I would burst. It happened so quickly – great despair to all-surpassing joy – and the only appropriate response to such an emotion of happiness, was to sing! I still felt ill, but it didn’t matter at all. It was insignificant in comparison to His wonderful presence. I sang every chorus I knew, and when I ran out of melody and words, I made them up. It felt as if Jesus was tipping Love into me, like one would with a jug, and I was so filled up with it that it bubbled over and out of me.
My sickbed became the happiest place in the world, and I didn’t care for the picnic at all. I wasn’t worshipping for an outcome – I was too innocent and unreligious for that, but while my devotion and mind was fixed on Jesus, He was healing my body, without me even noticing. Sickness, whether a virus or bacteria, could not coexist with such brazen, and glorious light. I don’t know when it happened; I can only recall a sudden awareness of feeling completely well. It wasn’t long after that my family piled into the car and headed to the picnic. I’m sure I had a wonderful time, but despite it being the longed-for dream of a five-year-old, it has faded from my mind.
In contrast, my encounter with Jesus established in me a deep desire for relationship with God, and from it grew such love for Him that many of my memories after this are moments when love bubbled out of me toward others. I remember a morning, in the same house where He had healed me, and me watching the cleaning lady washing a large window that overlooked the garden. I felt the blossoming of love and joy spring up in me again, and this time, instead of song, it came out in words and testimony. I have forgotten what I said – I was so little, with so few words to sufficiently capture what I felt – but I remember the gush of love that accompanied those feeble words. And then she was crying, a sobbing-type cry that I didn’t understand. I only knew His love was tangible for her too; His presence was so strong that it had overwhelmed us both.
I recall these memories to remind myself of the simple, profound nature of the Gospel. Before I was old enough to understand Scripture, or doctrine, to argue or challenge, or succinctly state my beliefs, I encountered the love of Jesus. And His love came with His presence. Wherever Jesus is, there is love. For me, love conquered my disappointment, sadness and physical sickness and it filled me with such joy and delight that my most natural response was worship. For Lena, the cleaning lady, love touched some part of her that I didn’t know needed touching. Perhaps she was broken-hearted, or maybe she just needed to know that God saw her that morning. I didn’t offer her anything articulate, but she didn’t need that – like all of us, she needed to know, and she needed to experience, that she was loved.
I can learn a lot from my young self. Love was a lot less complicated then; I didn’t question it or doubt myself as a worthy recipient. I did not struggle under a burden to respond appropriately: Am I thankful enough? Am I doing enough? And there was no history of disappointment or unanswered questions, or religious lies, to stand as gatekeepers to my heart and throw fuel at cynicism. I didn’t even think too much about how I would tell others about Jesus because it felt completely natural to share this wonderful gift with my friends.
God’s love for us never disappears, regardless of whether we’ve apprehended it. He loves because He is Love; it is impossible for Him to be other that who He is. David said in Psalm 139: 8: “If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol,[the grave] you are there!” If this is true, there is nowhere His love can’t find you.
One day, everything of value, and everything that holds our attention – our needs, anxieties, dreams, resources and gifts – will simply disappear. And what may feel elusive now, will become clear. I Corinthians 13:12-13 states, “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
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