Heaven is without strangers, or borders, or suspicion. It is like stepping outside the doors of the last airport, and finding car after car lined up, each driver calling you by your true name: “Stay with me before the wedding! We have plenty of room! Come, drive with me to our home, sister! Let me grab your bags, brother! It’s so good that you’re coming home!”
I never saw much of Saint Luke. He was a cloistered man, spending most of his days muttering to himself, brooding his reflections on past conversations. He tasted words, even as he slept
I met Saint Paul by an off ramp, drinking cheap beer and smoking his cigarettes with the two fingers he had left.