I'm sure the view of heaven beats the hell out of mine here

     You won't see me write about religion on this blog and up until this point it wasn't really an option.  I am, by Christianity's classification, a Catholic.  Raised in Catholic schools, I naturally felt that religion class made me exempt from all weekend services until at least twenty years of age.  A mass piggy bank if you will.  Throughout my life I've thought of my faith in stages.  Early on, I went to mass with my family until my brother's misbehavior and Cheerio throwing put that to a halt.  At the same time, Sunday service with Grandma and her attempting singing abilities.  ("It's just that you sing, God doesn't mind if you're on tune.")  Minor relapses along the way and I still ended up at a Catholic university.  Not on purpose or by default, but the St. Louis campus had a lot of tulips.

     So now I'm sitting on an Atlanta bound flight with the sunrise shining in the windows and destroying my desire to sleep.  I'm staring over my sleeping seat buddy out the window trying to understand where the concept of heaven came from.  As humans, we love to justify our actions with the idea of immortality, almost as much as we fear the inevitability of death.  Once, I nonchalantly told a friend, "I don't believe in heaven."
      "WHY?" in a rather blasphemous tone.
      "Do you know anyone who has been there?"

      But in the end, I do. Not because, like a child who behaves for the sake of Santa's visitation, that I feel like I need to or that I should. It's because I want to and that's all anyone really needs.

Author's note: This story was written on August 10th and inspired by the death of my grandpa Clee who left us 15 years ago on that day.  I love you grandpa and I promise to scratch your back when I see you again.  Also, thank you and Grandma for showing me the only fairy tale I've ever known.