Smoke Plumes, Not Clouds

Don't fool yourself about Heaven on Earth. It's not a five star restaurant. Heaven is not a theme park. No town or metropolis will be good enough to be Heaven. Don't take me to the Cliffs of Dover or the Alps. Heaven will never be a tourist trap.

Let me tell you of Heaven.

Heaven is deep in the woods. Thick woods. Not curated woods that you walk through holding the hand of your beloved. Untamed woods. Dead logs sit rotting in thickets. The grass rises to your knee and reaches beyond. The backwoods rise up unyoked by humanity. Rolling hills and crescendoes of mountain tops carry this chaos. The animals have all fled. The birds do not sing, for the air is no longer theirs. That is where Heaven is.

Winds whip through the leaves, spreading Heaven's smell and making you cough. You cannot drive to Heaven. You march to Heaven, in a long line with all the saints. A blessed few fly above you in metal angels. They are harbingers of Heaven's glory.

The procession of grimy, unkempt warriors continues wordlessly. Each of you wipe at the deltas of sweat crossing your skin. Whatever you manage to erase is recreated within seconds The heat does not stick to you; it invades you. As you approach Heaven, each warrior slips a bandana over their face. The atmosphere thickens. Each breath you take invites a penetrating miasma to revile your lungs. The burning sensation permeates your nose and eyes. In this moment, you forget pure air's existence.

And before you know it, you have reached Heaven. Tendrils of flame lash out at nature. Fire licks along the earth. Defenseless banks of briars and brambles become blazing monuments of Heaven's glory. Trees crack and fall in the heat; millenia-old timber die in a matter of minutes. That is Heaven.

You and your fellow firefighters fall in. Your pulaski sinks into the dirt, marking Heaven's boundary. Adrenaline rears its head as the winds hurl feverish cinders at you. Shovels cut the forest floor. Hoes scrape away anything burnable. No one speaks above the wildfire's freight train bellowing. Two warriors pass behind you, one carrying a chainsaw on his shoulder. The whines of machines signal the clearing of the forest. Heaven stops here.

Above you, helicopters and planes swoop into Heaven. They baptize you with their red retardant. The fire recoils with each blessing. Helicopters splay the tops of trees and kick up debris at you as they join your cause. The sounds of their rotors are lost in the din of Heaven. Someone points to the sky and cries out:

"Cover!"

You dive away from the fireline just as a 747 SuperTanker spreads its wings above you. The sudden torrent of water flagellates the forest. Your body recoils as it is violently carpeted. The colossus's engines shriek overhead. For one moment, the smoke falters and you gasp a clean breath. And then you must leap to your feet and seize your tool once more. Heaven still bears its effort down upon you. And this Heaven shall show you no mercy.

Your muscles ache, tire, and tear. Ash coats your tongue, despite your covering. Each gulp of water you steal from your canteen is torturously hot. No respite exists for you here. And when your twelve hours is up you fall in with your war band and march out, greeting those coming to replace you.

That is what Heaven is. It is not some passive asthetic. It is a brawl to earn your survival. And when you do earn it, you will truly know what a blessing Heaven is.