Those who have dwelt in heaven, as we all have, know that there comes a time in the life of every angel when God calls you aside, sits you down in a little office, and says, “We need to talk.”
You say to yourself, “I knew this was too good to last.”
“How is everything?” God asks.
“Well, fine,” you answer. “just like always.”
“I’m referring to this… this perfection business. How’s it been working out for you?”
“Is there something wrong?” you ask.
“Of course not,” God laughs. “How could there be? I was just wondering if… you might need a change.”
You knew this was coming. You gulp.
“I was just thinking,” God continues, “it might be time for….”
You feel yourself turn pale. “Are you talking about… that place?”
“I think you know what I’m talking about,” God says gently. “You’re ready.”
“Please, no. Not ready, no.”
“Admit it,” God says. “You’ve been getting a little bored here.”
“Well, maybe a little. Because, of course, everything is perfect. But I haven’t complained, have I? I’ve learned to put up, I mean keep up, quite well with perfection.”
“But maybe its getting a little old?” God suggests.
“My work has gotten an A-rating, hasn’t it, just like everyone else’s? Haven’t veered from you will for an instant, have I?”
“All that is quite irrelevant,” God replies.
“But how could I survive in that place?”
“You couldn’t.”
Desperate now, your voice is quivering. Something new and salty drips from your eyes. “I wouldn’t last a moment there, God, 70, 80 years at the most!”
“About right,” God says.
“And I’d have to endure…. imperfections!”
God gravely nods. “Every imperfection in the universe, all bundled into one planet, one lifetime, one body.”
You cease to struggle. Your shoulders droop as with heavy wet wings. “Why would you ask this of me?”
“Because you’re ready.”
“Ready for what, Lord?”
“If I could tell you the answer, you wouldn’t need the experience.”
Your white light dims. Soon, you are so dark you begin to take on color.
“Please, God, I’m afraid. I’m not strong enough. I think I might fail.”
“You might,” God replies.
Gazing at God in surrender, you see a softness in those eyes you never noticed before. God whispers,”It’s already begun, hasn’t it?”
“Yes… it feels… so afraid, but so alive inside. What’s happening?”
“It’s called humanity.”
“Will I return, or will I die?”
“Yes,” God says.
Though you try to speak, now no sound comes from your agonized lips. Light fades from your countenance. God reaches out graceful fingers and closes the lids of your eyes. Then, lifting you up in arms that offer no more solace, God hurls you through the window, through the portal that opens wide into the vast and terrible glare of birth.
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