I have always had this fascination with heaven since I was little. As a child, I recall having a dream where two cherubs appeared in our backyard. Two endearing heavenly creatures, yes, not the kind described in the Bible, but the ones pedaled in children's shows and movies: short curly hair and chubby cheeks, among every other charming little description we often toss their way.
It was in the afternoon, while I was standing in our backyard’s wooden door, when I spotted them soaring down gently from the sky. They were carrying a small, rectangular wooden container (with two wooden handles on the sides) as they glided past the Narra tree that was planted near our old house.
They stood next to me as soon as they touched down, and then, without saying a word, they nudged me to step inside the box— to which I, without the slightest protest, happily obliged. Yet, the moment I got inside that fruit crate-looking box, these cherubs suddenly looked at each other as if they were a bit puzzled. One of them shook his head softly, a gentle no that said “not yet.” And then, they left. I was wondering, why would they come and fetch me only to leave me behind? How could they not be aware that it’s not my time yet to go with them?
And that’s pretty much the story of my life. I have never felt fully at home anywhere since childhood–there’s always something missing. I’m thinking maybe it could be the result of the trauma I had with neighbors and distant relatives. So when they coaxed me to come with them, I seized that moment without hesitation. Not that I don’t love my family, they’re my life–but there’s some hole in my heart that nothing on earth can fill. I guess, it’s a blessing that I was made this way– because no matter how happy I can be here on earth, I’ll always lift my gaze toward the heavens.
In John 14:2-3 – Jesus told His disciples: “In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”
We call this world “home.” But if this fleeting place is truly our final address, then things wouldn’t make sense. As one Pastor once said: Our hearts ache for permanence, yet we are surrounded by the temporary; we crave love, togetherness, and beauty that will not fade, yet everything here comes to an end, all the things we see and feel wither away. The tension is unbearable—unless, of course, this isn’t home at all.
Our citizenship is in heaven, not in some ethereal dreamland. And if your imagination is cluttered with cartoons of people floating on clouds, no, that’s not how it is—it’s not fake nor imaginary. Heaven is not a vague idea; it’s more real than anything we know here. I should know, I have seen visions of heaven as a child, and I am not the only one who has had such visions. I can tell you, Earth is just a draft copy, a faded outline of what’s to come.
If you still cling to this world, perhaps you should ask yourself: what possible comfort is there in a universe where justice is never served, where love ends at the grave? That’s why Christ has assured us of His promise. “I go to prepare a place for you.” And because of this promise, we have hope. If we belong to Him, the door to that home has already been standing open for you and me long before we were born.
Revelations 21:18-21 describes heaven in vivid detail, which will leave us giddy with excitement. Our permanent home is a place where walls are carved from the fanciest Jasper, framing the whole city. Twelve pearl gates marked the entrances-- opening quietly to paths where joy bubbles up around each bend. Inside, the town appears to glow softly in gold, radiating everywhere, shining like crystal. Every foundation stone has a jewel shoved into it. A short stroll away, we will see the homey, but expansive, mansions rise above the gold-paved streets. Oh, I can already feel the happiness of that day.
For real, though, I am not after the mansion. I prefer a small cottage by the sparkling river with a back garden filled with mint, lavender, wild poppies, and climbing roses of different colors tucked in the corners. The inside? Shelves of dog-eared novels, and a writing table pressed against the window, so I don’t miss the view, not to mention that fresh breeze able to slip through while I write. I even asked God if I could be one of His gardeners once I got there. A gardener, you may ask. I know, some people think that it’s going to be boring in heaven. Really? Heaven is a resting place, but it’s also abuzz with activities. God dislikes laziness. How can some people think heaven is a place of inactivity? Compared to Earth, it’s even more expansive, a thousand times more beautiful, and therefore, expect more satisfying pursuits and hobbies. Think of the activities you enjoy here on earth… now imagine that joy multiplied many times over.
Knowing that our struggles will have an expiration date… we will keep trudging on until that fateful day comes when we finally rest in Jesus' arms.
“You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You"-- Augustine of Hippo
”God shall wipe away all tears from our eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” (Revelation 21:4 KJV)
People often say that grief is the body remembering what the soul can’t bear. It really is. I have experienced what psychologists call “complicated grief.” It’s definitely messy, quite unpredictable—a burden that’s hard to shake off for years on end. It’s the kind of grief where mourning stretches far longer than what most people experience. You can be picking flowers in the garden one second and then ugly-crying into your mug the next. The pain of our grief doesn’t care about timing. It just hits us where it hurts. We ache because we’re wired to want them here. But the good thing is, death doesn’t get the last word. Heaven does. It’s such a relief that this long separation isn’t forever. Until then, we stumble forward. We choke back tears, but we don’t grieve without hope, because, my friend, as the sages often say: heaven means love outlasts the grave.
If you’re one of those people grieving over the loss of a loved one, staring into the void, wondering if this heaviness will ever call it quits. It will. God promises it will. None of this baggage we carry will weigh us down forever. Jesus has already gone ahead and prepared a place where all our burdens and pain will fade like smoke. So, when our struggle feels endless, remember: this isn’t our whole story. The Author of life has already written the last line of our journey—victory over all our struggles.
And despite the pain we go through here on earth—we hold the gift of a promise: that while we await with joyful expectations of what’s in store for us in God’s kingdom— the Lord has promised to renew our strength. “We shall mount up with wings as eagles; we shall run and not be weary; and we shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31 KJV
And now that the prophecies of the last days are falling into place, one after the other, we are called to set our minds and hearts on heaven, being cognizant of the fact that our ultimate purpose and hope lie beyond this world. Yet, as we look forward to that long-awaited day, let us live our lives in such a way that we shine light into the shadows of this dark world, living for Christ. And so, may we live our lives in such a way that God’s heart is drawn into the hearts of those around us, allowing us to bring more souls to Christ as we await our homecoming in heaven.