Jesus, Not Heaven

I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

I was driving Hannah home from somewhere. It had been a rough week. We had just learned that her brain tumor—once labeled benign—was no longer stable. It had turned cancerous. The doctors told us she had about six months to live without further chemotherapy, something Hannah had already sworn she would never do again.

We both knew that unless the Lord intervened, she was going to die.

The car was quiet. Heavy. Then, out of the silence, Hannah spoke.

“You know, Mom,” she said, “I’m not looking forward to walking this path the Lord has set before me, but I am really looking forward to feeling His Presence so closely again. It’s been a long dry spell, and I really miss that.”

My heart soared.

My kid got it.

She had tasted the presence of God before, and she knew something many people never learn—that His nearness is most keenly felt in the darkest places. She had discovered that the Father draws close to the brokenhearted, and that when He wraps you in that inexplicable blanket of His love, it is worth every ounce of pain it took to get there.

You don’t usually find that depth of communion in the good times. His presence isn’t felt as palpably when life is smooth and predictable. Hannah understood this. And because she understood it, she was willing—almost eagerly willing—to trade all the good times for the hard ones, because the hard ones came with one-on-one communion with God Himself.

And to her, that made it worth everything.

I think about that day often. It remains one of my proudest moments as a parent. To know—not hope, not assume, but know—that your child has a real relationship with God is deeply comforting. People often say you can never really know if someone is saved, and maybe that’s true in many cases. But that day, I knew.

She confirmed it again the night she died.

We knew the time was near. Hannah had developed what some call “the death rattle.” The nurse told me not to tell her that the end was close, but I knew my child. She would want to know.

So we talked.

Her face registered surprise—but also relief. She was tired. She was ready. One of her sisters asked her if she was scared.

Hannah rolled her eyes and said, “Noooo.”

That did my heart so much good.

She wasn’t afraid. She was ready to step into eternity because she knew exactly Who was waiting for her there. That day was brutal for those of us left behind, but for her, it was graduation day. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

She was going to see her Jesus.

When she slipped into eternity, I was stroking her face, memorizing every curve, every line. Her eyes were closed, and she looked peaceful. Then, suddenly, her eyes flew open—as if someone had called her name. There was surprise in her expression.

And then she was gone.

It startled me, of course, but I have often wondered what she saw in that precise moment.

Not long ago, I heard someone on the radio say something that stopped me cold. They said, “People often talk about looking forward to heaven, but they rarely say they’re looking forward to seeing Jesus. It makes me wonder if what they really want is just for their problems to be gone. If that’s the case, their focus is all wrong.”

My spirit leapt, and I wanted to shout, “Yes!”

I can tell you this—I am aching to see my Jesus.

Yes, I want to see my loved ones again. Of course I do. But the very first face I want to see is the face of the One who died for me. My heart longs for it. My soul yearns for it.

I don’t care much about crystal seas, though I’m sure they’ll be beautiful. I don’t care about walking on streets of gold unless they lead me straight to Him. I don’t want a tour of the mansion first.

I want Jesus.

I want to see the One I’ve walked with in the shadows. I want to hear the voice I’ve learned to recognize in the quiet places of my spirit. I want to see the curves of His face.

I just want to see Jesus.

So let me ask you—what hope are you holding on to?

Is it simply seeing your loved ones again? If so, you’re holding on to the wrong people. Is it the hope of being pain-free? Then your hope is too small. Is it just the desire for all your problems to finally go away? That’s not much of a goal.

All of those things will be wonderful, yes—but they are not the treasure.

They are side effects.

The reason heaven will be heaven is Jesus.

Without Him, heaven wouldn’t be heaven at all. And the reason hell is so hellish is not fire or torment—it’s the absence of God.

So don’t focus on the joys of heaven. Focus on the One who makes heaven joyful.

Jesus is your reward—not heaven.

Seek Him, not His residence.

Because wherever Jesus is—that is where your heaven will be found.