Transcendence Digital Stories

Heaven is my home, but until I get there, I think that God sends me little pieces of it, simple foretastes of what eternity will be like. I see it in simple orange and pink sunsets over empty Ann Arbor parking lots, from the half-obscured view of my window when the light sneaks through the blinds and warms my body as I lay in bed; I feel it in the embrace of the person I love most, whether we’re dancing in the kitchen or merely touching hands one last time before we part way

I have rediscovered a love I forgot existed. Father, you are the artist of nostalgia. It is You who reopens the wound of a heart that longs for rest, a heart that longs to be filled; it is You who reminds us of the radiant joy, love, and peace of a distant past; it is You who awakens the heart to a warm, dream-like memory which peaks out from beneath the sands of time. It is You who calls us in these moments of longing. You are the joy, love, and peace we remember vaguely fro

I stand behind the door as a gentle breeze blows through my wings. Silence is an old friend, entering without knocking, staying to clean up the kitchen. My spine is straight, my chest unmoving. In my hands rests a staff, riddled with purple and red and gold, the only colors besides the white surrounding the space beyond the walls. My ears start to pulse as a low hum spreads. Gentle and quiet at first, then crescendoing into a symphony of vibration, the squeal of a firework