There are moments when heaven feels quiet. You pray once. Then again. Then again—adding more words, more urgency, more emotion. You whisper in the morning. You repeat it at noon. You kneel again at night. You wait for a sign, a shift, a signal that your request has reached its destination. When nothing changes, doubt begins to circle. Did He hear me? Should I pray louder? Should I fast longer? Should I repeat it one more time? We assume silence means absence. It does not. Our Father does not require volume. He is not persuaded by repetition or intensity. He knows the request before it forms on your lips. He understands the burden before you articulate it. He sees the ache behind the words. Most of all, He knows your heart. Sometimes what we ask for is sincere—but mistimed. Sometimes it is heartfelt—but incomplete. Sometimes it would harm us if granted immediately. And sometimes what we think is provision would actually derail His greater purpose. We pray from perspective. ...
Oh No… This Isn’t Heaven The room is dark. Not dim. Not shadowed. Dark in a way that feels heavy—like the absence of hope itself. You expected light. You expected relief. You expected gates and choirs and reunion. Instead— “Welcome,” a voice echoes. There is no warmth in it. You glance down. You’re still you. No luggage. No phone. No credentials. No polished résumé. No titles trailing behind your name. Just you. “Step right up. No reservation needed. Judgment has already taken place.” Your stomach tightens. You open your mouth to explain. Surely there’s been a mistake. You were responsible. You were decent. You paid your bills. You avoided a scandal. You volunteered occasionally. You believed in something. Didn’t that count? “No bottled water. No coffee mugs. No portfolios. No jewelry. No degrees. No bank statements. No house keys. No business cards. None of it transfers here.” The voice continues, calm, almost amused. “The make and model of your car? Doesn’t matter....
