Heaven Is For Real

They told me it was clouds, a parable in the sky, but the boy dreamed in gold, and came back with eyes that saw beyond dying. “I saw a throne, and Him that sat on it…” (Revelation 4:2) "My Father’s house has many rooms," (John 14:2) he said, and I imagined doors swinging wide— not mansions, but places where sorrows cannot live. I watched the trees throw shadows on a tombstone, but the trumpet hadn’t sounded yet. "He will wipe every tear from their eyes." (Revelation 21:4) So I kept mine— salted proof that we still hope. Under fluorescence and morning coffee breath, I tried explaining eternity in spreadsheets and Wednesday prayer meetings. "Today you will be with me in paradise," (Luke 23:43) he said to the thief, and maybe also to the doubters, and those who scribble poems instead of believing outright. Not a cloud, but a city— its gates unlatched by grace, its streets humming with footsteps of those who never feared the dark. "The glory of God gives it light," (Revelation 21:23) not neon, not sun, but something like the hush before dawn, something like the breath held before a newborn name is spoken— before eternity receives us. In the margins of the apocalypse, an angel whispers, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.” (Revelation 14:13) And perhaps, blessed too, are those who still believe when belief is not convenient— when faith wears a hospital band, or sits beside an empty crib.