Honestly, I've always subscribed to the idea of "the new heavens and the new earth," a startling, postmortem end times theory, quite biblical, that claims we'll all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye; but we'll mostly inhabit the same digs (which wouldn't be bad, given our new house). Heavenly hybrid manure would be nice too out here in hog country, if I can make a suggestions. And no dust--I'd like that. Maybe a lot fewer flies.
I don't need much.
No one knows what heaven is like really. There's some considerable blowback these days about the old saws--streets paved with gold and a gadzillion little winged seraphs strumming dulcimers. You know, all that milk and honey. I think such visions are mostly passe'. I'm not sure what my mother foresaw or, of course, what she's seeing today: maybe just something extraordinarily brilliant and peaceful. Good theories abound.
It may well be a sign of my old age, but last night's Sioux Center Christian School concert--orchestras, bands, and choirs--might just pass for what I can imagine as heavenly: a whole crowd of middle-schoolers, teeth full of wires, making sweet music together, singing parts even, and even the boys, half of them with foghorn voices. It's hard not to judge what you're witnessing as a little bit of heaven.
Maybe it was just me. I can be faulted, after all. I'm hardly objective--I'm a grandpa.
Anyway, this morning's thanks is a no-brainer: last night's concert. Maybe it wasn't as wild as one of those goofy biblical musicals that makes fun of Noah's overflowing restrooms, but this one had aspiration in it, and that's something greatly admirable: kids simply trying to create beauty.
It was pure delight, and I loved it. For that evening, this morning, I'm greatly thankful.