Our conversations spin like a coil
around a magnet.
Weather and friends and books
twist among the rest, but
somehow it always comes back to
Heaven, for us.
(sapphire, agate, emerald)
Some things we plan to learn in Heaven:
1. Violin for me, accordion for you,
mandolin for us both.
2. Ballroom dancing.
3. The gospel according to Bartholomew,
Philip, or Thaddeus.
4. How to ride a pteranodon, because there
are definitely dinosaurs.
You walked where he walked, and
began to understand more deeply
the inheritance prepared for us.
As always, it is history's illumination
that unveils tomorrow's beauty;
you pulled the curtain back a little,
called me to look,
hung the reminder of our adoption around
my neck, for me to hold as tightly
as a champion's gold medal.
I will wear it proudly, boasting
in nothing but my father,
on the glorious day I cross that finish line.
(onyx, carnelian, chrysolite)
Some things we'll remember from Earth:
1. "Trifles," "The Story of an Hour," and other
writings we first read together.
2. Murmured Bible discussions
between classes, instead of homework.
3. Trading long skirts for African travels.
4. The fact that you named my scarf
It's the middle of the night
when it overtakes us again:
the weight of what forever means,
the staggering reality of approaching joy,
the ever-expanding certainty that
keeps our fingers jumping and
our eyes wide open.
We follow Isaiah into the throne room.
We tremble in the thunder of praise
that echoes amidst a thousand
beating wings—we behold,
we behold, we behold—
I'd known you for a week,
maybe two, but time
doesn't matter in a friendship
more like sisters, long-lost
for half a childhood,
sibling souls recognizing one another
The wrinkled green loveseat didn't ask
to be a simile, but when I said that
Heaven is truer than Earth, you
thumped it hard, agreeing
with an open palm.
"It's solid, like this," you said.
We had met at the cornerstone;
we were there to stay.
"From the beginning," you say, "God
set us on something
that would last."