I was eight years old when C.S. Lewis wrote to his friend a letter of consolation upon learning of the death of this friend’s wife. I knew little of life and less of death. I knew not either man. I was oblivious to most tragedy and pain in the world. Their sorrow and comfort toward each other was far from my play yard and companions. They were much older and nearing the end of their days. I was far nearer to the beginning of mine.
Yet, they were eight years old at one time. It happened unto them as it has to each of us. It was a few years after they exited the warmth and comfort of their mothers body. Everyone who has lived more than eight years has had it happen to them. It happens to those with mothers and fathers and those who have lost both. It happens to some with brothers and sisters and some who have none. It happened as well to them.
At eight they knew nothing of cell phones, movie theaters, space rockets, airplanes, great wars or genetically modified anythings. Their feet were bare and their hair tousled from running to and fro. They did not consider where their next meal would come from, or if cruel wicked governments would oppress them, or who would be the love of their life that God would place in their path of life so they might know the favor of the Lord. They were eight years old. They were blessed in God’s eyes even though they did not have eyes for him.
I was eight when their lives were approaching that great crossing over from this mortal existence into eternity. Soon after that time one of them would be observing the funeral of the other. The weeping at the passing and joy of the memories shared by their loved ones were unknown to me at eight. The troubles of life and regrets for consequences from decisions made are few when one is eight. Yet even by eight, the warmth of love and cold of fear are known. The comfort of family protection and calamity of abandonment are acquainted with some at eight.
None of us are born apart from the divine intervention of an Almighty God. None who grow to be eight are not impacted by His provision and protection. In the days when I was eight life was much different from the days when these men were eight. Yet they were not so different either. The sun shined on them on cloudless days. Rain fell upon crops and birds soared high above. Grass grew tall on vast prairies. Apples fell from trees and great sandy deserts were hot and dry while teeming with life. They were eight once, I was eight once. It was so vastly different. It was so much the same.
There are other years which could be spoken of. For at eight one seldom considers the end of days nor the afflictions or calamities which may happen in the days until then. The Bible tells of men many years ago who lived eight hundred years or more.
It also shows us that man who is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble. We are instructed that the days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength, they are fourscore years, yet their pride is labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
At eight the end of all things is unthinkable. Every tomorrow is an uncharted unknown. Today is what matters. Now is always the best time of life. Playing with best friends, imagining life as it might be, with no worry beyond the creek. With no fears of any terror. Everything in sight is an amazement to be explored. When I was eight, those two older men were nearer to heaven than I. At least their bodies were closer. I wonder if my heart might have been closer to what heaven is like than they.
Untainted by years of sin. Innocent and playful. Marveling at everything I saw. I wonder if we will be eight years old in heaven. If the innocence and joyfulness of untainted spirits will marvel in amazement at each glorious color, at each unbelievably astounding sight. Will my years of life and study of God’s Word prepare me better for heaven than the innocence of an eight year old? Is it possible that the wisdom which comes with all those gray hairs may be second best when compared to the bubbly enthusiasm of that eight year old of so long ago?
C.S. Lewis and the dear friend he was consoling that day, have long since gone to be with their wives and with the Lord they adored. It has been many years and I am now closer to the age they were then than I am to being eight. I wonder if they remain the wise elderly comforters they were in their last years upon earth. Would they look quite properly attired in their robes of white, strolling down the heavenly avenues? Will they be calmly and serenely pleased that they lived for Jesus after receiving His salvation?
Or will they get to be the eight year old again? Dashing about between all of the splendor and marvels they have never seen. Finding the truth that eye has not seen nor ear heard what the Living, Loving Lord of the universe has prepared for them that love Him.
Will they greet each new saint as though they had always known them and always enjoyed their company? Will they sweetly shout the praises of their Lord and King with the enthusiasm of that bright eyed eight year old. Will the sparkle in their eyes resemble that unblemished joyful beam in that eight year old’s eye?
Will I be eight in Heaven?