Forget what you’ve seen in Renaissance murals and church windows. All those fat baby angels and lords with long white beards and shockingly muscular bodies for their age.
If you hear someone who has been revived talking about a beautiful golden light, know it was just the refraction from my single malt scotch. Neat. In a crystal glass.
Heaven is nothing like our dreams. If it was, it would not be heaven.
You will love it here. Gumbo? Every day for lunch. A beach with Wifi and Netflix? Right this way. Heaven smells like sandalwood or lavender or the crook of your baby boy’s neck. This heaven is made for you. This heaven has been waiting for you.
And, not coincidentally, it is right next to the heavens of all the people you know and love. Your mother, who died when you were a teenager. Your uncle, her brother, who gave you a hard time and you loved him for it. From where you sit, you can reach over touch the neighbor who died seven years ago in storm; he is still telling bad jokes. The newly dead: David Bowie. Your friend who died suddenly last fall in her sleep.
The best of all your lives. This is some type of heaven.
And you are a most unlikely angel.
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