On the edge of Berners Bay, bare feet nestled in the white and black sand that shimmered with flecks of gold, I sat and watched this sunset. Gulls cried mournfully. A seal slipped smoothly up, shining head breaking the surface of the water for a moment, before dipping down again with barely a ripple in its wake. The rays softly slanted lower and lower across the Chugach Mountains in the distance, ethereal and golden, and the movement of the waves along the shore was the gentlest whisper of a song.

I had the odd urge to hold my breath, as though I might break the moment by making a sound or movement, and deep down in my soul I felt the most wonderful ache.

I’ve felt that ache before. It’s not frequent, quite rare in fact, and not something I can ever conjure up on my own.

I’ve felt it when I walked down on the aisle on my wedding day and held each of my newborn babies in my arms for the first time. I’ve felt in moments like this, as I glimpsed a scene in nature so pure and exquisite it seemed like a painting—but it was, in fact, more beautiful than any painting. I’ve felt it when standing in a crowd singing a beloved hymn with such gusto I can’t hear my own voice above those around me.

But I’ve also felt a similar ache in moments that seem very different from these, and this month it came in a whole new way.

A beloved community member, friend and sister in the Lord was suddenly, shockingly diagnosed with acute leukemia. Those who loved her, who were many, rallied together to storm the gates of heaven on her behalf. My heart ached as we set aside our own agendas (which suddenly seemed petty) and even sleep, to gather, weeping, unified in our request that she be healed. Not quite a week later, on a stormy Sunday morning, God in His infinite wisdom took her home. “She’s doing great: she’s having church with Jesus this morning,” we were told over the phone. We went to be with the earthside Church of which she was an inextricable part. The usual order of service, which suddenly felt as out of place as our own agendas had earlier in the week, went out the window and we instead cried, hugged and worshipped together as a family.

The ache was sharp, deep and real. It ached for days, and it still aches.

At first, I thought the two kind of aches were different. and certainly their causes were very different, as different as good and bad. It wasn’t until later in the week, though, that I connected the two. I was standing along the shore watching clouds and sunlight battle magnificently over the ocean as I quietly grieved the loss of my friend, when I realized that, deep down at the roots, the two aches were the same—and that’s because every deep, true ache of the heart is an ache for heaven.

Just to be clear, when I say “heavenly” and “heaven”, I am not referring to some fluffy fairyland populated by pink clouds and fat cherubs strumming harps. I’m talking about a place that takes whatever your human idea of perfection is and blows it to bits. I’m talking about a place so incredible that it’s beyond imagination. I’m talking about the dwelling place of God, the Creator of the universe.

We perhaps too lightly use the term “heavenly” to describe everything from the perfect pitch of a violin solo to a delectable dessert. It does, for instance, seem a bit cheap to compare the dwelling place of God with chocolate. However, I do believe that every experience we get here on earth of pure beauty and good is, indeed, the tiniest sliver of a glimpse of heaven. We are given moments, as it were, of heaven on earth, to remind us both of what was and of what is to come.

But I also now believe that even the ache over sin, evil and death is essentially a heavenly one—or at least it should be, though it is probably rarely recognized as such. Why? Because it’s the ache of “this is wrong, this is not how it’s supposed to be”, in which we inherently recognize that we are waiting for something. That’s what Paul was talking about in Romans when he said creation itself groans inwardly as it “waits in eager expectation”. Even the earth itself knows that it was created for something better, that there are better things to come. Those who ache and grieve without also knowing this hope and assurance are indeed wretched.

By God’s grace, we do not stay in the grief over what we lost in the Garden of Eden and continuing burden of the curse, but we rejoice in the promise of the freedom and glory that is to come. It is the hope of heaven that makes losing a beloved friend bearable, even as we feel the sting of death that shouldn’t be. It is the hope of heaven that washes over my soul on the shore of a bay resplendent with glory. I hope that no matter what is making your soul ache today, that it takes you there, too.

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” (Romans 8:18-25)

P.S. I post these photos in memory of Trish, tenderly remembering how thrilled she was when she heard that I was going to visit this place (Echo Bible Ranch), a place she loved and had told me and my girls many stories about, assuring me that I was going to get some wonderful pictures while I was there.

I can only imagine the infinitely more glorious sights you’re seeing now, friend!