Here in Michigan, with the summer weather comes the bluer skies—the endlessly deeper sapphire skies. They’re beautiful, and they’re more than worth one’s staring. It’s supposed to rain today. That’s okay. We more than need it.

I installed a new stereo in my Jeep. The previous stereo had become somewhat rebellious. For example, it preferred to pause the music when I pressed the mute button. Also, it tended to begin its life anew at every stop. Five minutes at the gas station, and it would reset its clock, lose all the stations, and so much more. Sometimes, it wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I’d press a button, and it wouldn’t do anything. It’s now in a box in my basement.

The new stereo connects to my phone and its music applications, one of which is Spotify. On the way to school one day last week, Evelyn and I listened to whatever Spotify sent us. Elton John’s “Rocket Man” was one of its suggestions. Listening to that song beneath what was gradually becoming a clear blue sky stirred a particular memory for me. I described it to Evelyn. I told her that I heard that song while driving a week or so after my brother Michael died. It was in July 1995. The sky was a seamless blue. I remember leaning a little bit into the steering wheel of my truck to look upward through the windshield for a better view. I did this as Elton sang, “And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time….”

I was 22 years old at the time. My brother—my only brother—was 24 when he died. I remember looking into that infinitely vast sky and thinking it would be a very long time until I’d see him again.

After sharing that memory, I’m pretty sure I noticed Evelyn moving as inconspicuously as she could to wipe away some tears. She’s truly a lovely girl, empathetic in every way. Of course, I didn’t end the story without the Gospel truth, which I’d already shared in a simpler way. Yes, it would be a long time before I saw Michael again. It’s already been almost three decades since we were last together. Still, I will see him. That’s the promise. And I believe it.

My oldest daughter, Madeline, just graduated from high school. Her graduation party was yesterday. What a joy it was to spend time with so many friends. Naturally, as it is with many events in my life—my wedding, the births of my children, my ordination, and so many others—I’ve looked around each event’s scene and wished Michael could’ve been there. That happened at Madeline’s party. Certainly, I’ve always wished my children could’ve known him. And yet, I wasn’t thinking that way yesterday. Instead, more than once while visiting with so many people I cherish, I thought, I wish Michael could’ve been here to meet you. I know he’d have liked you as much as I do.

As the saying goes, each day, a day goes by. But when you love someone, the person’s absence hurts, and each day apart seems to have a thousand hours instead of only twenty-four.

I suppose for many of you, I’m not describing something unfamiliar. You know the sensation. You’ve experienced those moments when you’ve heard a song, taken in a scent, or seen a sight that swept you backward to a time with someone who right now is permanently out of reach.

Having just used the word “permanently,” I realize how strange that word is for Christians. Even with synonyms like “perpetually” and “forever,” for Christians, the truth is that these terms have an expiration date when paired with the out-of-reach nature Death seems to bring. For Christians, Death isn’t permanent. It isn’t forever.

There’s another saying that Death has a thousand doors, and we all find one. There’s truth in that statement. However, no matter its form, because Christ conquered Death, it becomes just another event in a believer’s mortal life—an entryway to a timeless unending with Christ so beautifully described as the shelter of His glorious presence, a place where believers “shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 7:16-17).

And by the way, this wonderful reality will occur among what Saint John called “a great multitude that no one could number” (v. 9). All believers in Christ will fill that multitude’s ranks. Michael is already there, along with all who’ve gone before us in the faith. I’ll be there one day. Someday my wife and children will be there. By faith in Christ, you’ll be there, too.

Until then, in a mortal sense, I think it’s gonna be a long, long time. But that’s okay. Time will end. But eternal life won’t. Knowing this, I can hear a song that prompts a glance toward the heavens and have a different longing as I do it, realizing that for every hour we’re apart from those who’ve died in the faith, there will be a limitless cadence of eternal hours together with them in our Savior’s presence. That same Savior, Jesus Christ, gives this to us because, in perhaps the simplest way, He knows the feeling. Believers are a part of His family. By His relationship to the Heavenly Father, He calls us His brothers and sisters (Mark 3:34-35, Romans 8:29, Philippians 2:8-11, Hebrews 2:11, 2 Corinthians 5:21). He loves us more than anything—enough to shed His blood—and He doesn’t want to be without us.

One last thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to make Death out to be no big deal. It is. That’s why, as I’ve said countless times before, I always give Death a capital “D.” Death is not our friend. It isn’t our helper. But also, it isn’t something we must fear because it isn’t our master. The real Master, Jesus, has declawed, defanged, and defeated it. That’s why Paul can recite rhetorically, “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55).

Again, Christ loves us more than anything. Not even Death can keep Christ’s brothers and sisters from Him. Instead, Death must hand them over to the Lord every single time. That’s something worth pondering, no matter the sky’s demeanor.