A Letter to God, Vol. 1
To the Reader:
The following is a hypothetical letter to God, as the title suggests. I’m well aware that prayer allows us to communicate freely with our Father at any time. Yet, there’s something unique about writing a letter—a nuance that feels almost like a lost art in today’s age of emails and text messages.
I encourage you to take a more intentional approach when talking to God. While quick prayers during your commute have their place, there’s a depth that comes with dedicating your full attention to putting your thoughts into words. Think about the last time someone wrote you a letter. Did it mean more to you than a simple text?
In this letter, I talk a lot about Heaven. My fascination with Heaven is deeply tied to my desire to know the Father. Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you.” The phrase “Father’s house” intrigues me.
Both of my earthly parents are alive, so I have the privilege of visiting their home. I can see the artwork they’ve chosen, the furniture they’ve collected, and the details that make their house uniquely theirs. By simply being in their space, I learn more about them than I could through a conversation.
Now, imagine the Father’s house. If we can learn so much about God through the beauty of His creation on earth, how much more will we learn when we enter the home He’s prepared in Heaven? My fascination with Heaven isn’t just about the place—it’s about the Father who created it.
Dear God,
I’ve been meaning to write You this letter for a while now, but I kept putting it off. Today, I finally realized I couldn’t wait any longer.
It’s not that I have anything urgent to bring to Your attention—nothing escapes You. Nor do I think there’s anything You’ve missed. To suggest urgency or oversight in Your presence would be laughable, even blasphemous. No, I simply wanted to talk to You about Heaven.
I’ve read what Your Word says about it, and I’ve delved into the writings of Lewis and Tozer on the subject, but I still want to know more. Perhaps it’s the mystery of not knowing that fuels my longing. Maybe the mystery itself is intentional—after all, You are intentional in all things.
I’ve heard Heaven described as a place in a realm separate from ours. Is that true? Or is it more like a neighboring country—just a little further down the road? For now, one thing is clear: in my current state, I cannot get there. It will take a life perfected through death to make the journey—a life that has forsaken all for You, a life that has “finished the race and kept the faith,” as Paul said.
What will that arrival be like? Will it feel like waking up from a nap, suddenly home? Or maybe it will be like those childhood car rides when I’d fall asleep but wake up as we turned into the familiar bumps and curves of the driveway. Could it be that as I approach the finish line, the veil will thin, and I’ll instinctively recognize Your presence, waking to find myself in Your house?
I think of the parable of the prodigal son. When Jesus told that story, was He giving us a glimpse of what it’s like to enter Your Kingdom? Will the first sight I see be You, running toward me with open arms? Will I begin to explain myself, only to be silenced by Your words:
“I know, son. But now, you’re home.” And will You turn with me to witness the celebration waiting just beyond the hill?
I suppose I’ll have to wait and see. Whatever Heaven is like, I know it will surpass anything I can imagine.
Perhaps it’s bold of me to assume I’ll stand in Your courts at all. Sin is in my nature—it’s how I was born the first time. But thankfully, You are good.
If it’s alright, I’d like to spend quite a bit of time thanking You. I’m telling You now because when the day comes, I’ll likely be too overcome by tears of joy to get the words out. Thank You for loving me when I didn’t deserve it.
And if I ever begin to forget Your goodness and love, please go ahead and call me home. If my heart forgets, my mind will surely follow, and my body won’t be far behind.
That’s all I have time to write for now. What a day it will be when time itself dissolves, and we no longer count moments or measure hours.
I plan to write to You again soon. I’ll try not to put it off as long as I did this time.
Until then,
-The Writer
Mountain/Valley 
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