This past Tuesday was Karl’s 56th birthday. He wasn’t here to celebrate it with us. Some people say it’s his first birthday in heaven but I doubt it matters there. It matters to us, however, because we’re still bound here, on earth, in the present, without him. 

We chose to continue Karl’s tradition of giving gifts on his birthday. A precious group of ladies from church made teddy bears from Karl’s childhood t-shirts that his mom had saved in a grocery bag out at the farm. Tied with ribbons with his initials on their feet, they sure looked cute! I never could get the stains out that had set in permanently from years in an old missionary barrel in the shed, but I suppose the bears “bear” the mark of his DNA.

For his birthday, the kids also gifted each other something memorable and they got me a journal for writing letters to Karl. We went for dinner and shared a video call with Mikaela. That was Monday night, and for the remainder of the week it was emotional, sentimental, and we all felt a little raw, emotionally exposed. Our Dalat family remembered and honored Karl on his birthday by planting a tree, burying a little urn of his ashes, and installing a marker in his memory. The tree looked festive and cheery all tied up in purple streamers. Staff and students wore purple and all around campus were big purple ribbons and bows. Like a dear friend said, “Karl always liked a good party.” He really did!

On Monday night, we started getting texts and photos from family and friends who went out for Dairy Queen blizzards. Karl loved Reese’s chocolate peanut butter and whipped up with ice cream, all the better! Many wore purple and stood with us on that day in solidarity for the meaningfulness of his life, physically declaring he has not been forgotten. It was comforting to us and I’d like to think it’s a simple tradition we could carry forward.

His birthday brings back sweet memories and fondly recollected stories. He was fun and full of life and humor. He lived his life in a good mood. He fulfilled his earthly roles and relationships with intentionality and authenticity. We cherish all those things. With the remembering, celebrating, honoring, comes an accompanying sorrow and deep sense of loss. We missed him more acutely, more deeply, his absence stark and painful. It’s a strange feeling for a celebration to hurt so much. As a result, it brought about unfamiliar emotions of him spending his first birthday in heaven, those celebratory feelings somehow soured. Oh, what we wouldn’t do to have him for mere seconds! It may seem illogical to you, or you may judge us for it, but we craved a sign, a dream, a vision of where he is right now. We wanted him to be with us.

In several articles and books that I’ve read, grieving people are sometimes comforted by signs they believe are from those who have passed on. Some of the stories are plausible, even credible, seemingly orchestrated rather than coincidental. It’s yet again one of those experiences that cause you to feel like if you don’t receive those signs, that somehow you’re doing something wrong. Tim Challies, author and pastor, talks about his experience when others ask him about heavenly signs from his son. He said that he neither looks for, expects, even wants those signs. He writes, “I understand the impulse to look for a sign and I understand the comfort that can come when we believe we have received one. Death and all that comes beyond this life is a great mystery. Though we all go that way, none return to describe it, none make their way back to assure us that heaven is real and God’s promises are true. Our loved ones cross the river and are lost to our sight and our hearts burn to know that they have passed over safely. It is natural, then, to hope for some kind of information, to seek some kind of a sign, to know that they are okay.”

To do so, we have to rely on truth and not our feelings. We have to possess Hebrews faith. The same faith that guarantees salvation guarantees resurrection. It also doesn’t mean that a loving God won’t provide some special encouragement to us, or that stories from others aren’t somehow real. Even our desires can bring about interpretation of circumstances in such a way that gives us encouragement. For example, I know that Karl didn’t become a star, but when a friend shared that a star lingered long past daybreak over Dalat School that morning, as he took his last breath that evening stateside, it was a lovely, encouraging thought. When his dear friend took his little urn of ashes for one last tour of the campus, I’d like to think he’d be pleased about that. It made us all smile to know and see photos of the morning of the ceremony as it dawned with beautiful shades of purple. There’s no biblical reason for thinking such, but there is an element of human encouragement. And when you’re grieving, every morsel is precious.

So as Karl’s birthday came and passed this week, we were certainly very mindful of earthly reminders and markers of his time here. Scripture is vague on the exact order of events, likely intentionally as that should not be our focus. Even books about heaven struggle to define what happens immediately after death, providing little comfort for that powerful quest for understanding that accompanies grief. What we do know is that in Luke 23, the thief on the cross said to Jesus, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” From Luke, we also know that Lazarus was ushered into heaven by angels. So our assumption is therefore immediate presence with Jesus. Yet our brains sometimes struggle with the metaphysical aspects of the moment just post-death, and our finite minds want assurances.

In his extensive research and writing on heaven, Randy Alcorn refers to the present, intermediate heaven that is temporary until earth is restored. It’s possible we don’t understand the physics nor the measure of time in how that all works. He writes, “As Paul tells us, though we naturally grieve at losing loved ones, we are not to ‘grieve like people who have no hope’ (1 Thess. 4:13). Our parting is not the end of our relationship, only an interruption. We have not “lost” them, because we know where they are.”

A few months ago, I was watching a documentary about the biofluorescent flora our eyes cannot see. Since we cannot see in the ultraviolet spectrum, there is a world outside the scope of our natural eyesight. Scientists have used special equipment to view this unique spectrum of creation and it provides a special perspective on nature and how there are worlds hidden from our human senses. How much more would that be true of life after death if we cannot see the veil that separates the two?

We may never fully comprehend the complexity between life and death and we may never feel satisfied in wanting to know and understand more. Neither might we receive comforting signs or earthly assurances of Karl’s current, immediate presence. It’s hard. Having faith is hard. But knowing it is indeed a temporary interruption from our eternal reality is a comfort. We are simply and sadly on the side where the wait feels long and the separation most pronounced, unable to comprehend the constructs of time and laws of physics that allow for Paradise. So in the meantime, our responsibility is to look to scripture, not for heaven’s descriptions, but for direction on how we live until then. We should live like we’re homesick for Paradise, like we’ve been left behind. And when someone you dearly love dies, that longing becomes palpable and so very, very real.

Happy birthday in heaven, Karl. We miss you immensely and can’t wait to see you again!