I hear strange stories from time to time.

Martin used to work on a sawmill in Mission and grew dahlias on his five acres, but lived, like myself, at the Menno Pavilion where we lunched on the same lunch table. The other day he asked me a strange question - “Do you know how old people are in heaven?”

I answered that I didn't have the slightest idea, preparing myself for a more logical reply.

“Thirty four,” he said calmly, bewildering me, and realizing he was deadly earnest I asked him

“Where did you read that?” I thought things had gone far enough but he wasn't finished yet.

“I didn't read about it, and I had a feeling that you wouldn't believe me, but I talked with one who was there,” he said with a hint of hurt in his voice. Martin was a very serious churchgoing

person which threw me off completely.

“Martin,” I said, “stop fooling me, you're talking about heaven, where god abides. Did you talk to that young boy who died and came back to life again, you know the one whose father wrote a book about about all that?”

“No, my grandson told me,” he said quietly. “Whether you believe it or not has nothing to do with it, my grandson told me that he was in heaven and that people there were thirty four years old, and I believe him.”

Strange story, the second part next week.