It’s a question I have been asked many times since Nick went to heaven. It’s a question that has been asked by some who profess faith in Christ and some who do not, by some who believe in the God of the Bible and some who believe in more of an eastern notion of spirituality. It’s a question that is framed in many ways, but usually something like this: Does Nick send you signs?

People most often wonder if Nick sends encouragement in the form of birds—if somehow his presence or his spirit comes through birds that appear at our window or in contexts that would otherwise be difficult to explain. Some wonder if he makes his love known by shining as a star that glitters brightly in the night or his presence as a rainbow that glistens when the sun breaks through the clouds. Some tell of their conviction that their loved ones have been present with them in this way and how this has touched their sorrowful hearts and strengthened their weakened knees.
Though my answer may be disappointing to these people, I must be honest. No, I am not aware of Nick sending me any signs. But neither am I looking for signs and neither do I expect or even want them. I hope you’ll allow me to explain.
I understand the impulse to look for a sign and I understand the comfort that can come when we believe we have received one. Death and all that comes beyond this life is a great mystery. Though we all go that way, none return to describe it, none make their way back to assure us that heaven is real and God’s promises are true. Our loved ones cross the river and are lost to our sight and our hearts burn to know that they have passed over safely. It is natural, then, to hope for some kind of information, to seek some kind of a sign, to know that they are okay.
But even in the absence of a sign, I am convinced that Nick is okay. In fact, I am convinced that he is better than okay—he is the best he has ever been. Though death has for a time separated him from this world, it has transported him to the presence of God. In the moment he left here, he entered there. In the instant he arrived in heaven all trace of sin and its effects were obliterated so that he no longer sins or even wants to and no longer suffers or even can. His faith has become sight. He is in the place we all want to be. And now he awaits the consummation of all things, the reunion of body and soul, the coming of the new heavens and the new earth.
I am convinced that Nick is okay, but not because he has in some way let me know and not because he has sent a sign. I am convinced of all of this because the Bible tells me so. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Faith allows me to believe even when I do not see, it allows me to have confidence in what I cannot gaze upon with my eyes or hear with my ears or touch with my hands. It allows me to have confidence apart from signs. It allows me to believe that what the Bible says is sure and steady and true.
But it’s important to affirm that such faith is not mere wishing upon a star. It is not hoping against hope or longing against reason. Such faith is not irrational or unrooted. It is ultimately grounded in the factual, historical event of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. There is one who has died and returned to life, there is one who has been to heaven and come to earth. His resurrection is the “firstfruits,” the evidence and guarantee that those who are bound to him will rise like him. The faith that guarantees our salvation guarantees our resurrection. The faith that saves our souls from sin is the faith that soothes our souls in sorrow.
I have had to ask: What would it mean to my faith if I doubted Scripture but believed a bird? What would it mean if I professed that Christ rose from the dead but then fixed my confidence in the brightness of a star or the presence of a rainbow? God gives no instruction that I am to look for signs and gives no indication that Nick has the ability or desire to send one. God instructs me instead to look to Christ, to look to his resurrection, and to believe that “as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:22-23).
And then I have had to consider this: What of those who perceive no sign? Should they assume that their loved ones are not okay? Might they be harmed by looking without seeing and longing without receiving? Is there not a better way we can encourage them, a better hope to which we can direct them?
I don’t mean to say that God never provides us special encouragement along the way. A grieving parent recently told of breaking ground on a project meant to honor the memory of her son and just as the project got underway, a rainbow appeared in the skies overhead. She doesn’t believe her son sent a rainbow, but she also knows that God is loving and kind, so took this as the Lord sovereignly arranging circumstances to provide her grieving family some encouragement. I can tell of ways God arranged providence to meet us in meaningful ways in especially dark moments (at least one of which I describe in Seasons of Sorrow). But surely these ought to be understood as God expressing his love and care, not our loved ones intervening in the world. It’s God’s presence that is meant to comfort us, not the possible presence of those we have loved and lost.
I truly do understand why many seek a sign. I truly do understand why many interpret circumstances in a way that grants them encouragement. But I would want to gently persuade them to look beyond these signs and to look instead to God himself, to his Word, to his character, to his promises, to the resurrection of his beloved Son. This is where we must ground our hope. This is where we will find our confidence. This is where our hearts will ultimately be most encouraged.

What comes to mind when you think of R.C. Sproul? What do you remember of his life and ministry? What associations do you make when you hear his name?
He was a gifted teacher, of course—probably the greatest pure teacher many of us have ever encountered. So many Christians first came to marvel at God’s transcendent holiness and God’s glorious sovereignty to the distinct rasp of his voice and, in the background, the distinct squeak of chalk on chalkboard. Few men have been better teachers.
He was a trusted theologian. He had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of Christian doctrine and could converse or debate on a host of subjects. A panel or roundtable could go to nearly any topic and he would have something to say. In some of the church’s most crucial modern-day controversies, he took the side of the Bible and the side of orthodoxy. Time has proven that he was invariably on the side of the right.
He was a brilliant intellectual. He had a quick and exceptional mind and a towering intellect. Few people could catch him off guard and few people could match his wit. No one who ever debated him had an easy time of it or ran him over.
He was a compelling apologist. He loved to defend Christianity against the encroachment of false doctrines and vain philosophies. He also guarded the church against more subtle dangers like Catholicism and pseudo-gospels. Throughout his life, he defended the faith and courageously called people to it.
He was a pastor and professor, a mentor and chancellor, an editor and author. In fact, he bore so many talents and wore so many hats that it’s hard to believe he lived only one life. Truly, he was a gift to us.
And yet if you ever visit St. Andrew’s Chapel in Orlando and make your way to Sproul’s grave, you will find a different accolade on his gravestone—an accolade chosen by his family, by the people who loved him most and knew him best. “He was a kind man,” it says. “He was a kind man redeemed by a kinder Savior.”
Despite all he did and all he was known for, it is the quality of kindness that is engraved for the ages.Share
I have often pondered that epitaph. Despite all he did and all he was known for, it is the quality of kindness that is engraved for the ages. And I find that both challenging and encouraging.
It takes raw talent to teach like Sproul taught. It takes divine gifting to preach like he preached and to lead like he led. It takes advanced education to have his knowledge of philosophy and decades of study to have his grasp of doctrine. In these ways and others most will never be like him.
But kindness is available to all of us. Kindness is not an innate quality that is given to some and not to others. Kindness is not a characteristic that demands special talent or advanced education. Kindness is a decision we make each moment of each day. Kindness is fruit of the Spirit who lives within us—evidence of his presence in our lives and imitation of his divine qualities. Sproul was kind because he lived his life in service to a kind Savior.
And so, one of the men we love and admire, a man who left his mark on so many of us, is not remembered first for his accomplishments, but for his character. His lasting legacy is not what he did, but who he was. His enduring gift to those he loved is not the books he wrote or the organizations he founded, but the qualities of Jesus that were so prominent in his life.
As much as we have benefitted from all of Sproul’s gifts and talents, from all he did and all he founded, his family gave us a gift of their own—a reminder that the greatest accomplishments are accomplishments of character and the greatest legacies are legacies of divine attributes displayed in a redeemed life.

“In the beginning there were no canyons,” he told me. “There were no canyons in the Great Plains, but instead only broad, open spaces where rich grasses waved in the winds.” Intrigued, I sat and listened as he told his tale.

He told me of a day when the Master of the Earth walked all over the broad land and asked the Prairie, “Where are your flowers?” The Prairie replied simply, “I have no seeds.” So the Master gave his orders to the birds of the air until they flocked from north, south, east and west, each bearing a seed to drop upon the fertile ground. Soon enough the Prairie bloomed with the bright colors of crocuses and sunflowers, of lillies and roses, of aster and clover.
When the flowers had grown and their rich colors had brightened the land, the Master returned to the Prairie and was well pleased. Yet even in his pleasure he observed that some of his favorite flowers were still missing. Once again he spoke to the Prairie and asked, “Where are the clematis and the columbine? Where are the violets and ferns? Where are the flowering shrubs I love so much?” “Master,” replied the Prairie with sorrow, “I have tried, but I cannot keep those flowers, for the sun beats hot upon them and scorches them before they can grow. The wind blows hard upon them and drives them away before they can put down roots. I have tried, my Master. Won’t you help me?”
So the Master spoke to the Skies and in an instant a great bolt of lightning leapt from the heavens to the earth, striking the Prairie with a heavy blow. The Prairie cried out in agony and for a long while mourned the gaping, jagged gash that had been left upon it—a deep, charred scar that contrasted sharply with the bright grasses and vivid flowers around. “Why, Master?” it sobbed in bewildered sorrow.
But soon enough the gentle rains began to pour their cleansing waters into the wound, washing away all that had been seared and scorched. The birds returned once more and dropped their seeds into the depths. And before long, brilliant green mosses sprang up within it, long vines covered in wondrous flowers trailed down it, and every nook was hung with clematis and columbine. Great elms and willows took up their place and stretched their branches toward the heavens high above. Ferns and violets grew in bright clusters along the banks of the river that ran gently through its deepest parts.
This canyon became the Master’s place of special delight, the place where he found peace, rest, and joy, the place where he was most content to dwell. And as the Prairie gazed at all its newfound beauty, all this fresh evidence of life and grace, it could only conclude that the Master of the Earth had been wise and good. It knew now that the brightest of the blooms grow only in the places that have been prepared by the heavy hand of the Master. It knew now that the most beautiful of the flowers grow only in the deep canyons.
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I prefer to end the tale there. But for those who would like to know more, here is the rest of what happened that day.
“Won’t you tell me, I asked, what the flowers represent?” “They are the evidences of God’s grace in a life,” he replied, “—the flowers (or fruit if you prefer) that God’s Spirit grants to those he indwells: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Each of these is as beautiful and as wondrous as the finest flower.” “And which of these grow only in the canyons,” I asked, “only in the dark places?” “Kindness, gentleness, and self-control,” he said. “Love, joy, peace and the others grow well in the wide open sunshine and in the days of ease. But kindness, gentleness, and self-control grow best in the deep canyons, in those places specially prepared by the hand of the Master. If you wish to see these displayed in your life, you must be willing to have your Master prepare you.”

Inspired by Gwen’s Canyon by Ralph Connor.