Heaven.

Heaven is not far.
It is not only the gleaming city beyond clouds or the pearled gate stories.
It is not locked behind death.

Heaven is the warmth of bread broken between trembling hands.
It is the quiet of early morning, when the street hasn’t woken yet,
when the light is just beginning to speak.
It’s the way someone remembers your favorite song
even when you forgot you loved it.

It comes in fragments.
In the hum of a mother’s lullaby,
in the stillness after laughter,
in the breath you didn’t know you were holding until it softens out.

Heaven touches Earth like a whisper.
It lives in chipped tea cups,
weathered hands,
and in the glance of someone who’s seen all of you and stays.
It’s the moment you forgive yourself.
The way trees keep growing despite everything.

I often think of what comes after
not with dread but longing.
Not for escape,
but for returning.
Not to someplace foreign,
but home.

When my work here is done,
when my body folds into the dust it borrowed,
I hope Heaven gathers me in gently
but I also hope it feels familiar.
Like I’ve already been walking its roads.
Like I’ve already tasted it in someone’s kindness,
or in the grief that carved me open enough
to let the light through.

What if Heaven is not waiting
but leaking?
Through cracks in the world.
Through us.

Maybe Heaven isn’t elsewhere.
Maybe it is always near,
half-hidden in the ordinary,
whispering in every good thing we almost missed.

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