Let's just go to Heaven

I'm very tired of this world.

The intricacies of it. The things to learn, the way it moves, the laws, the living, it's all kind of exhausting. Who are we, really, to want to know the laws and physics behind everything? Who asked us to figure all of this out?

Having to deal with the emotions of humans on a daily basis. The quiet, grinding will of wanting to become "her" or "him." The comparison. The performance. The showing up every day to a world that keeps adding new rules before you've even finished reading the old ones.

I'm exhausted.

Let's just go to Heaven.

I've thought this more times than I'll admit. Not in a dark way, more like a tired sigh. Like when a student stares at a textbook at 1am and whispers, "I just want this to be over." Not because life is terrible. Just because it's a lot. It's genuinely, relentlessly, a lot.

But here's where I got stuck.

I was thinking about Heaven the way you think about the last page of a difficult book — just get there. Skip to the end. Rest. And then something small stopped me. A question I didn't mean to ask myself:

If I got to Heaven right now what would I bring with me?

Not in the spiritual résumé sense. Not good deeds and attendance. I mean — what would I know? What would I have felt? What stories would I carry in?

Because God has been here since before time. He's seen everything, made everything, knows everything. And one day, we get to be with Him forever. Eternity isn't a short stay. There's no checkout date. It's the longest conversation you'll ever have.

So what do you say to someone who made the universe, if you never stopped long enough to be amazed by it?

Think about Thomas Edison for a moment.

The man failed by his own count over ten thousand times before the lightbulb worked. As a child, his teachers called him too slow to learn. He was pulled out of school. He was, by the world's early assessment, not worth the effort. And yet he spent his entire life obsessed with understanding how things worked. Electricity. Sound. Light. He wasn't running from the complexity of the world — he was chasing it, pulling it apart with his bare hands to see what God had hidden inside.

Right before he died, he slipped into a coma. And then, briefly, he came back. He opened his eyes, looked upward at something nobody else in the room could see, and said —

"It is very beautiful over there."

Then he was gone.

He didn't arrive empty. He didn't skip the curriculum and show up with nothing to show. He came full, full of failure, full of wonder, full of a life spent learning the language of the world God made. And at the very end, after all of it, he looked up and called it beautiful.

That broke something open in me.

What if the exhaustion isn't a sign that you should leave — but a sign that you're actually in the middle of something?

What if God isn't withholding Heaven out of cruelty, but out of something closer to the patience of a teacher who knows his student isn't ready yet? Not because you're not good enough — but because there's still so much He wants to show you. So much He made, and hid, and waited for someone curious enough to find.

He beauty inside mathematics. He put rhythm inside language. He scattered wonder across the surface of a world most of us are too tired to look at carefully.

And He's not in a rush. Eternity doesn't expire.

The exhaustion of wanting to be "her" or "him" — I think that one hits different when you sit with it. Because what you're really tired of, underneath the comparison, is not knowing yourself yet. And maybe that's part of the work too. Maybe the journey from who I think I should be to who I actually am is one of the things God wants finished before you come home.

You can't discover yourself in Heaven. That work only happens here, in the friction, in the failing, in the 1am moments when you're staring at the ceiling wondering why any of this is worth it.

It's worth it because you're being formed.

The world isn't just the place you're stuck in until you die. It's the place where God is actively, patiently, lovingly teaching you about Himself — through everything He made. The physics. The emotions. The people who exhaust you. The version of yourself you're still becoming.

So yeah.

I'm still tired.

But I think I'll stay a little longer.

There's still too much I haven't learned yet. Too much I haven't felt. Too much I'd want to tell Him about when I finally get there.

And when I do — I want to walk in full.