A memory for you. . .
I’m nine years old. I’ve spent the night at my best friend’s house. We wake up early because today is the very last day of third grade. His mom, notoriously frugal, feeds us scrambled eggs on toast. I am shocked that we’re not eating cereal (too expensive) and orange juice (way too expensive). We grab our backpacks and head out the door, each of us with an egg sandwich in hand.
We walk to school, talking about summer and toys and movies and games and sports and all the stuff boys talk about. When we get to school, the lights are all off in our classroom. The alphabet strip and the calendar and the posters are all in boxes. We pass in our textbooks. No more math homework. No more history. No more spelling tests for three whole months. Freedom!
This is the happiest I have ever been, and nearly as happy as I ever will be.
It is, in fact, a taste of Heaven.
It’s thirty-two years later, and my little boy says something to me about Heaven, about how you have to die to get there. I pick him up and go to the window. Our lawn is green from a lot of rain, dandelions popping up everywhere. I point outside and say, “Look – Heaven.”
Then I show him his brother, his mom, his sister, all in turn. “Look – Heaven.” I show him his bed, unmade and comfy, legos spilling all over the floor beside it. “Look – Heaven.”
And that’s what I wanted to write to tell you today.
Look at your wife or your husband. Look at your kids. Look at the clouds or the grass or the little islands of trees off the highway. Look at the talkative grocery store clerk or the smiley waiter or the guy in sweatpants listening to rap music while walking his dog.
Look – Heaven!
All the best,