I wonder what heaven is like.
I know the Bible talks about heaven and what it’ll be like—streets of gold and endless praise and all that—but my imagination also pictures a different kind of heaven.
I hope God doesn’t get mad at me for picturing it differently.
I envision our first meeting to be very personal; for some reason, no one else is around when I arrive at the entrance to heaven. It’s not a defined entrance—I don’t see pearly gates marking the entrance to a massive walled enclosure of sparkly stucco. All of a sudden I am just there, wearing a pretty white dress walking down a dirt road toward God, who looks more lovely and radiant than I ever imagined. In fact, when I close my eyes and try to imagine this encounter now, I keep seeing Morgan Freeman even though I don’t imagine God looks like him. Oh, I should mention that I am in my 26-year-old body, which is soft and wobbly and grown-up. And I still have purple hair. When we meet, I say,
“Hello, God. It’s nice to finally meet you.” We hug, which I think is appropriate. He says,
“Hello, Bean. I’ve been waiting for you.”
As we walk together He points out noteworthy sites, which are curious and more remarkable than anything I’ve ever dreamed up (of course). Heaven is wild and natural and beautiful. I am so curious about all of the animals roaming around (I just want to touch them!) but I don’t ask questions; I’m shy. Those who know me know I’m not really shy but I think I would be when I first meet Him. I would say little and just walk in silence (and awe).
Somehow the town we are approaching blends seamlessly with the wild, like it sprouted out of the ground alongside the tall oak trees and wild flowers. It is dusk—my favorite time of day—and I notice that the old fashioned lampposts turn themselves on gradually, like they’re waking up from a long nap.
And oh, the people!
I can’t help but stare, which is natural since I do have a staring problem. Their faces are handsome and beautiful because they look rested, peaceful, happy. God pauses (since I can’t stop staring) to watch as people trickle out of their homes toward an unknown destination at what appears to be the heart of the town. I can’t help but admire their grand attire. They smile and nod as they pass us by.
I am about to ask where they are going (and whether or not we will go, too) but He is a few steps ahead of me walking down a trail that branches off the main road. I scramble to catch up. The road winds through a copse of old trees. As we walk, God points out healthy ferns and vibrant flowers; He is patient with me and waits while I stoop to look at tiny mushrooms. He doesn’t seem to mind that I wrinkle my nose when I see snails and the occasional slug.
The path we have followed eventually breaks through the trees into a clearing. There, at the top of a grassy hill, sits a white house with black shutters and a red door. I see an expansive wrap-around porch, complete with a porch swing and comfy cushions. It looks inviting.
“Welcome home,” He says.
I don’t know what to say except
“Thank you”, which doesn’t seem adequate.
I see a few houses in the distance. Some of my neighbors are tending to their gardens while others are sipping iced tea on their porches. They wave. God waves back.
He opens the front door for me (God is quite the gentleman). I hesitate before crossing the threshold. I am surprised to find
I am home.
It’s not the home I grew up in or the tiny studio I live in now. It’s an amalgamation of all of the places I’ve ever lived with some details from my dreams. It is comforting and familiar and brand new, all at the same time.
The hardwood floors creak happily beneath our weight as I explore each room; this time I lead and He follows. Like a child, I must touch everything. My fingertips graze the banister, already worn velvety-smooth by countless hands. I’m not sure whose hands but it feels like it has been smoothed by multiple generations living in the same house. There are books everywhere! Stacked on end tables, haphazardly organized on shelves, and strewn about the house at random. Books I loved as a child, books I checked out from the library that were never returned, books that eventually grew mold because I read them in the shower.
Twilight casts long shadows throughout the house, and like the lampposts, the lamps and candles wake up to reveal more treasures that were hidden in the semi-dark. Every detail is reminiscent of an item from my life—real or imagined. The walls are covered with familiar faces that smile back at me. On display above the fireplace is a picture of Mike and I on our wedding day. And although I am happy my throat tightens a bit because for the first time since I arrived in heaven, I realize he is not there. I feel guilty I didn’t realize it sooner. And my heart begins to ache.
Because He is God, He knows why my throat tightens but doesn’t say anything. Instead, He leads me back outside to the porch and we sit on the porch swing. There is a pack of cigarettes on the end table next to a plate of decadent triple chocolate fudge cupcakes. I eye the pack of cigarettes but don’t make a move. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to smoke in front of God; this is my first meeting, you know. In fact, I am not sure if there would be cigarettes in heaven but there they are—an indulgence from a different time, a different life.
I sneak a glance toward God, which of course, isn’t as sneaky as I think it is. He reaches for a cupcake. I hesitate before reaching for the cigarettes. He doesn’t say anything. I light up. Of course, they’re unlike any cigarettes I’ve ever tried. In fact, they smell and taste like cinnamon rolls (and of course, they are not bad for you at all). We sit in silence and listen to waves crashing on a distant rocky shore.
“You miss him.”
“Terribly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
God finishes His cupcake and licks His fingers. I put out my cigarette. I notice that God has crumbs in His beard.
“You have…something [I gesture toward my chin where my beard would grow]…leftovers…”
“Oh. Thanks.” He brushes them away.
I cannot stop thinking about Mike; I know there is a sadness lingering in my eyes.
“What do you miss the most about him?”
I’m ashamed to admit this but I’m pretty sure that I would start crying. I cry easily so I should not be surprised that I am crying during my first meeting with God (but it’s still a little embarrassing). I’m sure I would be a leaky mess, blubbering and sucking in sharp breaths to try and control the sobs that are jumping from my gut. All I can say is,
“I miss him”
But God knows (because He knows everything) that what I really mean to say is
I miss his smile.
I miss his after-work smell, which smells like hard work and graphite and metal and sweat and deodorant.
I miss his just-out-of-the-shower smell, which smells delicious and fresh and clean.
I miss the way he cups my face in his hands when he tells me I’m beautiful.
I miss the way his hands always find mine when I sneak into bed after he has already fallen asleep.
I miss his witty remarks.
I miss his sense of humor.
I miss hearing, “Hi Bean” on the other end of the telephone.
I miss his heart, which is kind and generous.
I miss his cute butt, which reminds me of a fuzzy peach.
I miss his jagged handwriting, especially the “I love yous” he scrawled on scraps of paper and hid around my room.
I miss the way he holds me when we slow dance to old records in our living room.
I even miss his farts.
God hands me a box of Kleenex and says,
[Silence]
But in the silence I feel His compassion. I blow my nose loudly.
“Where is he?”
“He’s not here yet.”
I try not to look as miserable as I feel because I’m in heaven (!) talking to God (!!!). Unfortunately, I have always been transparent and a not-great liar.
“Can I ask when? Am I allowed to? Okay, well, I guess I’m asking now…”
“It’s not for you to know. It’s better this way.”
It is night. The sky above us is a rich blue-black, peppered with white-hot stars. God and I sit in silence. I reach for a cupcake. Oh my gosh: it’s amazing. Between mouthfuls (but still with my mouth mostly full), I ask,
“Does it get easier? Will I miss him like this for always?”
“It gets easier. Over time, you will hurt less…but I made his heart for you…yours for him. There will always be a part of you that feels his absence.”
I finish my cupcake. I am tired from crying and my mouth tastes salty and slimy, like chocolate and tears. I want to brush my teeth.
“This sucks. Oops! I mean, this is hard. I mean, okay--I understand…sort of, or rather, I accept.”
“I know this is hard; this is love. Do you get it now?”
It is late now but God still sits with me. I'm not sure if He had other plans but I'm glad He is still there. We don't talk; we simply sit in silence as I mull over His words.
II.
Mike, I can never tell you enough times how much I love you. So I am telling you again--here, now, at this moment and for always:
I love you.
You are the best thing in my life, the one whom my soul loves. I know God loves me a lot because he gave me you--hilarious, wonderful, incredible you.
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