I don’t know about elsewhere, but it occured to me that the idea of believing in an idyllic heaven somewhere at the end of our lives, is no more ridiculous than thinking of a beautiful, warm, green, summer day in January in CNY.

As I sit on my porch on this perfect July day, the sunfilters down through the green leaves dappling the lush lawn with warm honey. The songs of many birds flit in and out of the melody the gentle breeze plays with my wind chimes. I can walk but a few feet and pick fresh berries, warm in the sun, or harvest squash, radishes, lettuce and beans from the garden. Each morning brings a gift of fresh eggs from the chickens who cluck happily around the yard. Spring flowers are past but my planters burst forth in a bright profusion of orange and yellow and red. Honey bees buzz amongst the purple hostas and birds flit in and out of the feeder. I sit and watch in shorts and tank top, my bare feet propped up on the railing and a cool drink in my hand, the fragrance of freshly mown grass all around me. This is what we wait for. Just a couple of months ago and in just a few to come, this tableau was covered in frost and snow or pelted with icy rain, while the wind howled amongst the bare branches and we huddled in our layers of down and wool, our feet booted against the wet and cold. If these two worlds can exist side by side so to speak, why not another world, a destination for the end of our life here the climate is always pleasant, folks can get along, and just as we move better on a pleasant temperate day, a place here our aches and pains are forever gone. If this amazing reward can come like clockwork to us evey year, is it really so crazy to think that heaven is for real?