conversation from heaven

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“You’re a cynic,” my friend declared to me not too long ago.
“No I’m not,” I argued, quickly realizing that not only did I sound like a cynic, but argumentative to boot.

I tried to explain to my friend that I was actually what I like to call “a realist”, but my voice began to soften and trail in defeat.

You don’t have to be related to Albert Einstein to deduce in short order that this life isn’t perfect. After being stolen from, lied to, punched in the mouth, both verbally and the good ole fashioned fist type, you begin to grasp the full weight of Adam and Eve’s original sin.

With a world full of folks that break the Ten Commandments with timely conviction, it’s no wonder some of us tend to be cynical.

Unfortunately, the modern church is no stranger to the flaws and tendencies of the flesh. After many lies and scandals, all of us become suspect of others in the church and some of their claims.

With that in mind, I can honestly say that I’ve had more than a few miracles in my life. I’m careful who I share them with and generally believe the actions of our lives should do the talking for us first and foremost.

Telling someone about a miracle or Divine intervention seldom carries as much weight as being the miracle… For those of us that have been called and changed supernaturally, including our ultimate destination, we live in a miracle, but sometimes it’s worth chronicling the additional miracles when we sense the powerful hand of God in our lives.

I was sleeping like Little Boy Blue, minus the hay when I heard a familiar voice. I had no awareness of my surroundings, I couldn’t say if it was bright or dark – that wasn’t the purpose – I was there only to listen.

I immediately knew the voice but knew he wasn’t talking to me… he was talking about me. I wasn’t having a conversation with the physically deceased, I was Divinely appointed to eavesdrop on a dialog from heaven.

I was captivated in wonder by the conversation that was about something I’d written, but more stunned and shocked to hear the voice of my dad again.

Whomever dad was talking with, they were chatting about a manuscript, a family memoir and tribute to the man we called “Daddy”, like many others with Southern roots do.

I was comforted by the conversation I got to hear. I don’t know if their conversation ended or I got to hear what I was supposed to, but it brought me wide awake in shock and contemplation.

It truly doesn’t make a difference to me if the world never gets to read that piece of writing dedicated to my dad… Knowing he’s proud is worth far more than anything I could receive physically in this life.

I didn’t get a glimpse of hereafter, but I’ll never forget the night I got to listen in a conversation from heaven.