Ever think about heaven? I mean, enough so to get hung up on the physicality of it all? For instance, could there be actual stairs leading to heaven? Here on earth, we’d have to worry about ACA guidelines. But in heaven, everyone’s healthy and whole, able to tackle that stairway without a hitch. Right? Then again, maybe in heaven, we’re more like spirits, formed into very un-earthlike orbs but with beautiful spirits.
Me? I've thought about heaven a lot lately, no doubt more irreverently than some might like.
My heavenly musings started mid-February, when the winter storms hit much of the country. Here in Georgia, we escaped real snow, but we did experience some vicariously. As Rice and I sat in front of the fire, scanning FaceBook pics posted by friends out in Elsa Land, we had two very different reactions. Me: “It’s so incredibly beautiful.” Him: “I don’t miss that one damned bit.”
Okay, I’ll grant him the snow has its downsides. In the Michigan of our college years, the snow could get old and dirty and ugly when plowed into piles to clear the roads for safety. Then during our young married years, the Colorado commutes could get pretty wretched, what with the black ice and whipping winds. And I think that those are the parts of winter Rice remembers.
But I recall another face of winter, one where there’s sledding and making snow angels and warming up with hot chocolate. One where white pops from the mountaintops after the clouds clear from a storm.
“Wouldn’t it be cool,” I mused, “if there was a place where you could experience the outdoor wonders of winter, but only for as long as you wanted? So after ten minutes of it, you could walk back into your balmy backyard in springtime if you chose. Wouldn’t it be great if that’s how heaven was, a bunch of rooms or oases you could travel to and from at will?”
"Hmmmmmm," Rice replied.
I didn’t press for more conversation. But my mind didn’t stop. I decided right then that if heaven has more than one room, one of those should be devoted to Seasons.
Like seven of ten Americans, I believe heaven exists. Most people’s visions of heaven—or any sort of afterlife—are rooted in their faith. I’m no different. Raised a Christian, specifically a Lutheran, I was taught to take comfort that heaven awaits me. And I do find comfort in that. But who knows?
In addition to the question of if there’s a heaven, there’s a stickier question of exactly who gets in? Most Christians believe the way into heaven is by accepting Christ as the Savior. But there’s a catch. That would mean only Christians get into heaven. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to go to a place like that. (Of course, my conservative Christian roots are screaming: “Heresy, Jan!”)
Heaven. In my mind, it’s an inclusive place. I mean, think about animals. Do they get into heaven? My daughter Alex theorizes that any creature that dreams has a place in paradise. But...is it the same heaven all the rest of us go to? (I suspect a few people in my family would opt for animal heaven over people heaven if it came down to having to choose.)
Oh, heaven. You dazzle us in songs and books, paintings and quotes. Respected evangelist Billy Graham said, “My home is in heaven. I’m just traveling through this world.” English theoretical physicist, cosmologist, and author Stephen Hawking said, "There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.”
When it comes to heaven, I sure hope Reverend Graham is right. But who really knows?
For just a little stretch during February, I allowed myself to over-think it. The more I mused about heaven, the more I got to wondering what it would look like for me, if I could pick my own magical door of entry.
For starters, I kind of like that blueprint I referenced earlier, the layout for a paradise of many different rooms, or oases. Remember the room I mentioned called Seasons? Definitely, that would be part of my heaven. Next, I’d include a room called Cities. People who know me will probably laugh out loud at that. In life, I avoid large cities like, well, the plague. I find metro areas crowded and dirty, loud and rodent-infested. Getting safely to and from the city often involves mass transportation, which brings on claustrophobia and feelings of being out of control. Yet.... Cities contain riches that can’t be found anywhere else. Restaurants where the food is sublime and varied, the diners colorful and culturally diverse. Old cemeteries and architecture that tell tales of years and lives long passed. Galleries and museums and shops that awaken every one of the senses. Yes, getting to and from big cities can be hell. But experiencing the riches inside the city? Heaven. So I suppose one room of my heaven would feature Cities. Of course, I’d also like a room called Countryside. But would that be a stand-alone or all-inclusive place? In other words, would Countryside have sub-rooms of woodlands and lakes and oceanfronts? And what about room-rooms? You know, more traditional rooms like libraries and kitchens? Heaven without a library wouldn’t seem like heaven to me. Much lower on my list would be a big fancy-ass kitchen—even one that gives new meaning to the term self-cleaning. But Rice might love that. So maybe in my heaven, Rice could cook for me in his Kitchen, and we could dine together in my Library, and between those rooms would lie our Wine Cellar. (We’d definitely have to share that room.)
Fun aside, I’m glad I don’t get a hand in designing my own rooms of heaven. For one thing, I’m sure I’d fret about what I might be forgetting. For instance, did I build in a room called Creative Arts? Or one for Love and Rest? And what about a room called Family? You know, a room for loved ones to gather without tension or arguments. A room where there’s no tug-of-war as to which family to visit come holiday time. Or whether to send kids to school in these lingering days of COVID.
In truth, I believe what awaits in heaven is so much grander than any human imaginings. That’s a very traditional Christian way of thinking, and I own it. But I also find solace in the lessons of Chinese philosopher Confucius. Especially this one: “We must not focus on the afterlife, of which we know so little. Instead we must focus on everyday life.”
Come to think of it, that’s where most of these heavenly ruminations of mine came from. Everyday life. Life today, life yesterday. Memories stoked by some random FaceBook pictures of snow.
A specific recollection.
One of my favorite memories of snow involves cross-country skiing with a friend named Kim. She and I would drive into one of the woodland canyons around Boulder, park the car, and hit the trails. The oneness I felt with nature during those treks was sublime. I think those memories may be what started me thinking about heaven.
They got me thinking about Kim, too, all these thirty years later. So I Googled her. When her name popped up, so did the word Obituary. I swallowed back a gasp and searched longer, discovering that Kim hadn’t passed. Her husband Jeff had. Young and vibrant. Crazy healthy. And then gone...too soon. Oh, how I suddenly wished I could visit with Kim and Jeff, just one more time.
So maybe I would like to add one more room to my heaven. Certainly an Old Friends’ Spot in the clouds would be apt.
Then again, Confucius might see things differently. He might point out there’s an Old Friends’ Spot accessible to me here and now. The cost is a ticket. The ticket is a memory.
So excuse me while I take a breather to access my own Old Friends’ Spot. It’s right here. Deep in the love-filled lining of my still beating heart.
P.S. I forgot to mention, in my heaven, carbs and calories don’t count.
Cheers ~ J
