They say we're creating the perfect hell, but is it really any better than dropping blonde bombshells? What is hell, anyway? If we all have a different definition, how is it confined to only one location?
I think hell is like a series of dorm rooms, if it is at all. Each resident is assigned to a rundown room with the most undesirable companion as their roommate. Maybe claustrophobics have twenty-four roommates in their ten by ten cubby. Maybe attention whores get a spacious room to themselves, surrounded on all sides of their property by dust and abandoned roads with no one to show off for. People like me can't find a pen or paper to save, well, I would say their lives, but that's long gone, isn't it? People like you are forced to endure hours of group therapy in which you have no choice but to feel, no choice but to talk about emotion. And you, you have to admit that you're wrong every second of every day.
We all have a personal hell. I would say where the hell do they find room to fit all this torture in, but it's hell. Overcrowding is as prosperous as tourism. A staple, a trademark. It's terrifying that I can see the layout, the innerworkings, the very personal poison of each soul within. I don't want to understand; I don't even want to believe. When we die, we all leave. I don't want my own cubicle. Sign me out. I won't go.
Maybe there's a reason why I don't understand heaven. I don't understand forever. We all understand what makes us hurt. We all know what our personal hell would be like. But how much time do you spend really dwelling on what makes you happy? We fill our time with what ifs, regrets, and hurt instead of the smiles we've made and people we've saved. Sure, we can all recall happiest moments of our lives. But I've never imagined my personal heaven, at least not nearly as much as what hell would be like for me. I'm scared heaven will be angels and hymns 24 hours of the day. I'm scared that's what it's supposed to be, and scared that that doesn't sound like a fun eternity to me. I don't want to be a member of the choir for eternity.
Can I make mix CDs in heaven? Can I hold hands with a boy that for once won't break my heart a few months later? I want to spend hours laying around with my best friend in heaven. I want to recognize the faces of my family, my friends. They'll still matter, right? Because it won't be perfect happiness to me if they don't. In heaven, I won't have to worry about if I'll get a prom date or not. Someone will sweep me off my feet, right? Will romance matter? Will it exist? I don't know what heaven is, and God knows I have more than a million questions. I'm scared, terrified; what is Sunday school faith if I have no idea where I'm going? It freaks me out, every time I think of eternity. I believe in everything that is good. I believe in the smile on my face and that quiver of excitement in my heart on Christmas morning and when I first fall in love. I want to always be able to feel. In my heaven, I will feel. I'll write, and I'll share my voice. I'll write about nothing but joy though; my hurt won't exist anymore.
Will it be like you and you never happened? Do I want to remember falling on my face by falling for you and you? No one knows everything, and I for sure don't know the next damned thing about heaven. The dorm room mentality hardly works for heaven, but shouldn't it be personalized? I know heaven will be perfect peace and unity, but it's hard to visualize when individuality is a point of pride in most people. Will we have our own personal joys in heaven; will they fit the mold of everyone else's? I don't know. I don't know anything. But strangely enough, I don't care as much as I did an hour ago. All I know is that I've always found pride in optimism, and I'm not fixing my eyes on my dorm in hell. Whatever my personal heaven is, and whoever it holds, bring it on. I'll face it dead on, full of question that may never be answered until my eyes close.
Faith is a funny thing, and I think I have about three hundred times more now than I did minutes ago. I don't know where it came from or where it's going, but I know I want to believe. Always. Nt in the Lutheran High School mentality of it all, not in the order of service, not in the liturgies and hymns. I find myself in what really matters. I find myself in a God that never gave up on me. Not when I messed up, countless times. Not when I lost friends, let down family, chased the wrong lovers. I'm alive; it's always been my favorite sentence.
Thank you God. I'm always scared to speak your name because I felt like I wasn't good enough for it. But God if I was good enough for all that mercy, I'm here now to say that I believe. I have faith enough to know that no matter what heaven is, it will be perfect. It'll be nothing I've ever felt before and better than my happiest and most fond memories. Thank you for keeping me alive when my faith was next to nothing. Thank you for holding onto me when I thought you were boring, not my style. Thank you, for having your hand on me, always, and for whatever forever I'll live by your side. I'm sorry. I love you. My questions don't seem so daunting with the promise of someone who's always there. I'm unashamed.
I owe you my life. Keep it in yours hands.
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