I lend no credence to visions of heaven. They all differ, every one. I don’t question the integrity of the person having the vision, except frauds. We’ve had recent examples. What I question is their authenticity. They’re all different. Can the heaven be different for each person going there?
It really doesn’t matter—God’s ultimate destiny for us is not ours to shape. Heaven’s what, where, when, how are mysteries beyond human ken, as are all matters of infinity. The brain is not designed to grasp them. What then?
All who write fiction know how a story can take over. Take Johnson Junction. It’s been ages since I visited there, but its streets and people are as real to me as any rural town of my early pastoring years. I dreamed up the setting and story line then the story took over, coming up with stuff I never imagined.
Then the Vernon Valley Vigilantes. The setting: Ma’s Kaffe Stuga and the senior friends who gathered daily around its round oak table, quietly led by Miss Beth, sixth grade teacher and township clerk. Every country home had a round table in the dining room, used mainly for Sunday dinner. Bigger crowd than expected? Add a leaf. I created the Stuga, table, and company of friends from happy memory. Then the story took over. Those old buzzards had adventures! I typed fast as I could and couldn’t wait for the next one.
If that never happened to you, my point about heaven scenarios is lost. But I’ve been there, done that dying thing. No golden street, crystal stream or long-gone friends; just an exhilarating anticipation. Check out www.lloydsstorytree.com, And She Wasn’t Laughing. Obviously, the dying didn’t take, but I‘ll never forget the experience.
We’ll talk more about visions of heaven.
Old Grandpa Lloyd