Heaven Is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back Read Free

through each side of his belt and one in each hand: Im playing Zorro, Daddy! Wanna play?

Heaven is for real
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    Cassie straightened and smiled at Sonja. Ill hold her, Mommy. Can I hold Rosie?

    Okay, but youll have to wait your turn, Sonja said.

    Cassie got in line behind a couple of other kids. Coltons eyes never left Rosie as first a boy then a girl held the enormous spider and the zookeeper awarded the coveted stickers. In no time at all, Cassies moment of truth arrived. Colton braced himself against my legs, close enough to see his sister, but trying to bolt at the same time, pushing back against my knees. Cassie held out her palm and we all watched as Rosie, an old hand with small, curious humans, lifted one furry leg at a time and scurried across the bridge from the keepers hand into Cassies, then back into the keepers.

    You did it! the keeper said as Sonja and I clapped and cheered. Good job! Then the zookeeper stood, peeled a white-and-yellow sticker off a big roll, and gave it to Cassie.

    This, of course, made it even worse for Colton, who had not only been upstaged by his sister but was now also the only stickerless Burpo kid. He gazed longingly at Cassies prize, then back at Rosie, and I could see him trying to wrestle down his fear. Finally, he pursed his lips, dragged his gaze away from Rosie, and looked back up at me. I dont want to hold her.

    Okay, I said.

    But can I have a sticker?

    Nope, the only way to get one is to hold her. Cassie did it. You can do it if you want to. Do you want to try? Just for a second?

    Colton looked back at the spider, then at his sister, and I could see wheels turning behind his eyes: Cassie did it. She didnt get bit.

    Then he shook his head firmly: No. But I still want a sticker! he insisted. At the time, Colton was two months shy of four years oldand he was very good at standing his ground.

    The only way you can get a sticker is if you hold Rosie, Sonja said. Are you sure you dont want to hold her?

    Colton answered by grabbing Sonjas hand and trying to tug her away from the keeper. No. I wanna to go see the starfish.

    Are you sure? Sonja said.

    With a vigorous nod, Colton marched toward the Crawl-A-See-Um door.

    TWO PASTOR JOB

    In the next room, we found rows of aquariums and indoor tide pools. We wandered around the exhibits, taking in starfish and mollusks and sea anemones that looked like underwater blossoms. Cassie and Colton oohed and aahed as they dipped their hands in man-made tide pools and touched creatures that they had never seen.

    Next, we stepped into a massive atrium, bursting with jungle leaves, vines tumbling down, branches climbing toward the sky. I took in the palm trees and exotic flowers that looked as if theyd come from one of Coltons storybooks. And all around us, clouds of butterflies flitted and swirled.

    As the kids explored, I let my mind drift back to the summer before, when Sonja and I played in a coed softball league, like we do every year. We usually finished in the top five, even though we played on the old folks teamtranslation: people in their thirtiesbattling teams made up of college kids. Now it struck me as ironic that our familys seven-month trial began with an injury that occurred in the last game of our last tournament of the 2002 season. I played center field, and Sonja played outfield rover. By then, Sonja had earned her masters degree in library science and to me was even more beautiful than when shed first caught my eye as a freshman strolling across the quad at Bartlesville Wesleyan College.

    Summer was winding down, but the dog days of the season were in full force with a penetrating heat, thirsty for rain. We had traveled from Imperial about twenty miles down the road to the village of Wauneta for a double-elimination tournament. At nearly midnight, we were battling our way up through the bracket, playing under the blue-white glow of the field lights.

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    I sensed the ball winging