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Case for Grace for Kids

ZONDERKIDZ

ON THE CASE

I grew up in an upscale neighborhood northwest of Chicago. My dad worked hard to build his business and provide everything we needed and more — as far as material things were concerned. He loved my mom. And everybody in the neighborhood seemed to like him.

Still, my relationship with him was always frosty, but not in a cool snowman-like way. It was cold. Maybe I needed more positive comments than the other kids. I don't know. He didn't take me to Cub Scouts, cheer at my Little League games, watch my speech tournaments, or go to my graduations.

Over time, I learned that the only way to get his attention was through winning things. So I strived for good grades, was elected president of my school, was the editor of the school newspaper, and even wrote stories for the community paper. Still, I don't remember any positive words coming from my dad. Not one.

I do remember, however, once when I was a kid, the entire family went to church together. We did this fairly regularly. But after the service on this particular Sunday, my dad drove everyone home — but he forgot to bring me. I can still picture my panic as I searched wildly around the church, looking for my family. My heart pounded, and my hope sank as I realized my father had left me behind.

It was a mistake on his part, but it was difficult for me not to see it as symbolic of how our relationship was developing.

One evening when I was about twelve years old, my father and I fought over something. I walked away feeling shame and guilt. I went to bed vowing to try to behave better, to be more obedient, to somehow make myself more acceptable to my dad. I can't recall the details of what caused our conflict that evening, but what happened next is still vivid in my mind.

I dreamed I was making myself a sandwich in the kitchen when a luminous angel suddenly appeared and started telling me about how wonderful and glorious heaven is. I listened for a while then said matter-of-factly, "I'm going there," which I meant, of course, at the end of my life.

The angel's reply stunned me. "How do you know?"

How do I know? What kind of question is that? "Well, uh, I've tried to be a good kid," I stammered. "I've tried to do what my parents say. I've tried to behave. I've been to church."

"That doesn't matter," the angel said.

Now I was staggered. How could it not matter — all my efforts to do the right thing, to be dutiful, to live up to the demands of my parents and teachers? Panic rose inside me. Words wouldn't come out of my mouth.

The angel let me stew for a few moments. Then he said, "Someday, you'll understand." Instantly, he was gone.

I woke up in a sweat. It's the only dream I remember from my childhood. Through the years it would come to mind every once in a while, and yet I would always shake it off. It was just a dream.

As I got older, I found myself getting more confused about heaven and spiritual matters. When I became a teenager, my parents insisted that I attend Bible classes at the church.

"But I'm not sure I even believe that stuff," I told my dad.

His response was stern: "Go. You can ask questions there."

But questions were only reluctantly tolerated during class. And the answers I did receive only scratched the surface. Nobody seemed willing to dig in and understand how deep their faith was. I actually emerged from those classes with more doubts than when I started.

Doubts continued to annoy me as I grew and my teachers insisted that science had explained away God. A creator was no longer needed. I became increasingly doubtful. Something was missing — in my family and in my soul — that created a gnawing need I couldn't even describe at the time.

Years later, I was driving down Northwest Highway in Palatine, Illinois, when I flipped on the radio. I can still recall the exact location, the time of day, and the sunny weather. But soon I couldn't see anything at all, because what I heard flooded my eyes with tears.

I didn't catch the full story, but it was about family and faith and God and hope. The voice belonged to someone who was born about the same time I was and yet whose life, in its astonishing horror and brutality, was the opposite of my own. Still, there was an instant connection, a bridge between us. She seemed to have lived out the answers to the questions nobody at my church could explain. She understood heaven and being part of God's family at a gut level. Her faith wasn't stuck as thoughts in her head. She knew the living God in her heart.

I had to track her down. I had to sit down and hear her story, one on one. I had to ask her my questions. Somehow I knew she held a piece of the puzzle of grace.

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Excerpted from Case for Grace for Kids by Lee Strobel, Jesse Florea, Terry Colon. Copyright © 2015 Lee Strobel and Jesse Florea. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERKIDZ.
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