Part Three: The Ache for Home

On Heaven, Longing, and the Space Between

I’ve been pondering this ache—the longing.
It rises when I’m tracing names through old census rolls or piecing together forgotten branches of my family tree.
There’s something sacred in remembering people who were otherwise lost.

But recently, a dear friend said something unexpected:
“Maybe the longing isn’t for the past… maybe it’s for the future. Maybe it’s the ache for the Kingdom. For Heaven.”

Hmm.
That would require me to think about Heaven.
Is my mind even ready for that trip?

It’s not like I’ve never thought about it. I’ve heard the promises:
Heaven is where I’ll go when I die. Where God is.
Where there are mansions and emerald foundations, streets of gold, and reunions with everyone who’s gone before.

Right?
Right?

Time to ponder.

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I could ramble on about what the Church Fathers said.
I could quote Scripture, dust off ancient theology, or retell stories of people who’ve “passed over” and come back with visions of light and peace.

But… what is reality?

Reality is—we don’t know what Heaven is.

The basic Judeo-Christian belief presents Heaven as the dwelling place of God.
A realm of eternal peace, joy, and communion with the Divine.
A place where we will be fully in God’s presence—where there is no pain, no death, no more sorrow.

There’s imagery, of course—golden streets and banquet tables, loved ones recognized and embraced again.
But ultimately?

It is beyond us.

“This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words.”
—1 Corinthians 2:13

We speak of Heaven, but we do so through a veil.
Through longing.
Through faith.

And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe the longing is the reality.

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So, what do I think reality is?

There’s no particularly humble way to ponder this, but I’ll say it anyway:
I don’t think the afterlife is what we’ve been told.
At least, not entirely.

I think it’s something in between.
Not clouds and harps.
Not simply “going home.”
Not just a reunion.

But also—not nothing.

Quantum physics, anyone?
(Yeah, I went there.)

We already know that reality is layered.
That time isn’t linear.
That energy doesn’t disappear—it transforms.
That memory, emotion, consciousness—all the things we associate with the soul—aren’t bound to a single brain cell or organ.

They ripple.
They imprint.
They move.

So, when I think of Heaven now…

I don’t think of a place far away. I think of a continuum—
A return to fullness.
To clarity.
To light.
To the Source we’ve been aching for all along.

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This thought isn’t meant to lessen God—
To reduce Him to some abstract cosmic force or impersonal energy field.

I believe God is God.
The I AM.
The Creator of all things seen and unseen.
Not bound by time. Not confined to matter.
Not made in our image—but making us in His.

But I also believe we, in our human limitations, have a habit of shrinking Him.

We try to put eternity into the confines of sentences.
We fit the Divine into our denominational diagrams.
We build theologies from metaphors and call them maps.

Maybe Heaven is one of those things we’ve tried to explain with language that was never meant to hold it.

Because if God is bigger than time,
Then the afterlife isn’t a destination.
It’s not a place we go.
It’s a reality we return to.

And since there’s no good English word for what I mean—
I’m going to dig into some Hebrew. And some Greek.

Because the way we’ve translated repentance has done more damage than good.

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Coming up on Vipond’s Ponder:

We’ll talk about teshuvah
Why the word repent is a tragic mistranslation soaked in shame,
How guilt became a tangled web we weave,
And why Heaven isn’t just later—
It’s the wholeness of God
now and then.