For half a century I have been translating my thoughts into prose and verse: history, drama, philosophy, romance, tradition, satire, ode, and song; all of these I have tried. But I feel I haven’t given utterance to the thousandth part of what lies within me. When I go to the grave I can say, as others have said, “My day’s work is done.” But I cannot say, “My life is done.” My work will recommence the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare. It closes upon the twilight, but opens upon the dawn.

~ Victor Hugo

I’ve been reading the book Heaven by Randy Alcorn, in which he does an incredibly detailed dive into what Scripture actually teaches about Heaven and the New Earth and what we may be able to infer and imagine based on what we are told about our lives there. It’s been fascinating and exciting, and I’ve felt that he does a good job being faithful to the Bible while still encouraging us to imagine our lives in that future time as far as is permissible.

But one thought has kept nagging at the back of my head as I read and ponder — “What about writing?”

It’s not hard at all to imagine writing in Heaven one day. I can envision myself and other wordsmiths penning poetry and treatises expounding on the glory and beauty of God and rejoicing in His presence, yes. Or even helping to write new songs and hymns of praise.

But what about stories?

As a storyteller, the writing of fiction is something so important to me that I want to envision it as part of our lives in eternity, but I kept getting hung up on one very significant problem: stories involve conflict. Conflict generally involves sin. And especially in the greatest stories, which involve the triumph of good over evil, sin is present. And how could we bring sin into Heaven, even if it’s only pretend?

The above quote by Victor Hugo stirred a longing and a hope within me that, while there may be so many stories and so many words still in me that I will never have time or ability to tell in this particular lifetime, is there a chance that I can tell them perfectly in the next?

As Alcorn answers so many of the questions in his book on Heaven, there’s no way to know for sure. But writing and storytelling weren’t my ideas, or Charles Dickens’, or Aesop’s — they were His. His book, full of stories and challenges and victory and rises and falls and tragedy and triumph, is the greatest love story, adventure story, and drama all rolled up into one. And there’s no doubt in my mind that we will still be rejoicing, in that perfect, eternal home, in the ultimate story of good versus evil — the triumph of Christ over death and sin on the cross.

If we can tell that story, why not others?

Is it impossible to imagine that, once our minds and souls are cleansed of all corruption and sin nature, we could craft a story that perfectly portrays goodness against a backdrop of darkness without engaging in anything wrong?

Is it so hard to believe that the One who taught truth through parables would want us to follow in His steps and communicate with stories of our own inspired by His in eternity?

Again, there’s no way to know. And if one day I arrive before Him and discover that writing stories won’t be a part of my life there, I will be too overwhelmed by the perfection of His plan to be disappointed. But in the meantime, I love the thought that perhaps the stories still within my heart may have a place on the other side of the twilight of this life and the dawn of the next.