Heaven is My Home

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 ways for the night;

I sense it in the laughs of my sweet childhood friend

whose dark curly hair bounces up and down

with every lighthearted joke she makes

about where we’ve been and where we’re going;

I taste it in the peanut-butter chocolate ice cream

and the raw mangoes and berries

that are ripest in the summer

and sing on my tongue for a brief few seconds;

And I believe it when I sit in an old wooden pew every Sunday,

Falling onto my knees in gratitude and wonder

As I pray to the One who made it all, who gave it all

So that I might have it all for eternity.