“There
are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations,
cultures, arts, civilizations - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as
the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry,
snub and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not
mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must
be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between
people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no
superiority, no presumption.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
(The title really just the state of things around me. I
couldn’t think of anything else.)
A friend and I were sitting around
a fire one night talking. I was telling him stories of the people I grew up
with and some of the insane adventurous we had. Some of those stories were
terrifying to live through but made for unbelievably great stories afterwards.
I think those moments were where my belief of, every day is a story waiting to be told, came from.
My friend told me he loved my
stories and believe his life was boring and lame compared to mine. I laughed
telling him that was not the case. I just learn how to turn everything into a
story. It is something he could learn too, something you can learn as
well.
(I
might write some of those stories out and placed them on here but I don’t know
yet.)
And then somehow during the late
night, he asked me what I thought Heaven was like? It was an odd question but
with the fire and the clean air our minds wander to places it wouldn't go to
back the city. I smiled for a moment trying to think about what Heaven was like
to me.
I've heard the stories about the
golden gates, the roads made of gold and the city of white. I knew what other
people said about it. The only person I've ever come close to agreeing with was
C.S. Lewis who said, “Heaven was joy, pure joy,” or something along those
lines. But what was it to me? If I could make Heaven what would it be?
I told
my friend, “Heaven to me would be sitting at a table or beside a fire telling
the Lord all my stories.”
My
friend not being someone of faith asked me, “But doesn’t God already know all
your stories?”
I shrugged. I believe so. I think
he does but I don't think that matters. I think what matters to the Lord is me
telling them to him. I believe all he wants to do is sit across from me and
listen to them. I guess, I find a little bit of Heaven telling and writing my
stories. There a part of me that write them out for the Lord but another part
that's wants to share Heaven with you.
When I
create I feel the Lord with me. He sits with me and yet, I know he still can’t
wait for me to tell him my stories when I sit at his table. I could wait until I
get there to tell him but I want to share Heaven with you.
I hope,
I give you a little piece of Heaven.
With a handshake,
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