[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person is purely unintentional.]
After 10 days, or perhaps it was a hundred, the angel returned. This time he looked like a pillar of darkness, as dark now as he had been bright before. How did I know it was the same angel? I just knew.
“Where am I?” I asked again.
“You are where you belong.”
“This can’t be heaven.”
“Why not?”
“Well, there are no harps, no streets of gold, no sign of friends and loved ones, and I haven’t seen Jesus.”
“Do you want to see Jesus?”
Suddenly, I wasn’t sure. But that was impossible. All my life, I had talked about seeing Jesus. It was the most important thing to do when I got to heaven. I had preached it to congregation after congregation.
“Everyone ends up where they belong,” intoned the angel again, looking helpful.
“But I belong in heaven. I accepted Jesus as my personal savior. I depended totally on his grace. I should be in heaven.”
“Well, perhaps you are.”