A Place On Earth

In my AP English class we had a project where we had to make a representation of either heaven or hell and present it in front of the class. I chose to do hell, because I could understand that. I can comprehend the idea of hell. I can fathom loneliness, chronic uncomfortably; I imagine hell to be a place that isn’t fire and brimstone but oppressive silence, an uncomfortable chill and very damp. In my mind, it is a slow ceaseless sort of torture.
It’s heaven I don’t get.
When I think of heaven, my mental picture is wooden picnic tables on clouds. It’s rather boring. But if I replace the word heaven with the word paradise, I have a completely different reaction. I can imagine a paradise. I think.
Several years ago I wrote a short story about people talking about their ideas of heaven. I think I did this because I don’t know my own. As I was writing the story, I found it fascinating that each character’s version of heaven was totally different than the others; that what is heaven to one person might be closer to purgatory to another.
I guess what gets me about heaven: to be what it is supposed to be, it must be all things to all people. I can’t wrap my head around that.
To be honest, I don’t know if I believe in heaven. I don’t live with some confidant expectation that I’ll end up there; that the people I love will be there too. Don’t get me wrong; I want it to exist but I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if this life is it and strangely that notion doesn’t do much to change my faith. But at this moment, I have to believe in heaven. There seems too much to a soul to simply disappear.