Recipe for Heaven

I have this distinctly vivid memory of being in third grade at recess trying to figure out how many years I had to go until I was 21. I counted in grades— fourth, fifth, sixth… twelfth, thirteenth… fifteenth grade (or as most would call it, junior year of college). I ran out of fingers. I thought to myself that with something so far away, I must have my life all perfect by then. I didn’t extravagantly aspire for many things then, and don’t now either, but at eight years old I considered the following to be reasonable life expectations: a perfect group of best friends who would hang out at the mall, have sleepovers, and gossip; a big girl house where I could eat ice cream whenever I wanted and never be forced to drink another glass of milk; and a tall gentleman with pretty eyes and a good heart to make me laugh and to love me. 

I’ve never been fond of the idea that I have to wait a whole lifetime to get to heaven. Maybe that’s why I never much believed in God or felt belonging in church. Perhaps my insistent impatience, maybe the fear that I’ll never get there, but I’ve always wished it could just exist in my lifetime. It seemed especially silly to me to have to sit quietly and wait when enlightenment and perfection for me are quite simple. 

While the typical dreams of my peers may consist of climbing to the top of the proverbial ladder and striving for excellence and accolades in every capacity, I have never authentically felt that drive. I have held curiosity for intellectual stimulation, but have always felt that as more of a backburner experiment. Naturally, aspiration is vital for drive and progression, but why do we choose to focus on the things we do? Where some crave glory and gold, I yearn for a life of ease and naivety. 

I find it interesting that while malls and ice cream have faded into the background of my life, the main sentiments of my dreams have persisted. I think people who grew up similarly to me, who have met the faces of disappointment and neglect and even still said “it's okay, see you soon, love you,” learned quickly about simplicity. When you build a home around anxiety, the beams of light that illuminate your life make themselves known. 

Really, my recipe for heaven calls for only a few key ingredients: a family that eats dinner together every night, days of sunshine and pretty skies, fresh flowers on my kitchen counter, and having someone to pour my love into— my fundamental needs, my primary motivations, my driving factors, all I need in the whole world to achieve contentness. 

As I approach a year of lasts: last summer break, last year of college, last year of

unemployment (knock on wood), last moments of careless childhood, many hard-stops are rapidly approaching. It makes me contemplate what I want in this next chapter of my life—  the things that I want to take with me and the things I want to leave behind. 

Looking back now all these years later, after living through fifteenth grade with the primary motivation of making the little girl in me happy, I think I can finally say I did it. Gratefully and with pride in my heart, I am beyond gleeful to say that I have checked these things off in the time I have allotted myself.

However, in the turmoil between the expansion of opportunity and the limitation of structure, I have realized something about my recipe. I do not think I will ever have a list of goals again. I would like to wake up everyday and have my checklist for those 24 hours. Every single day, I would like to wake up to the love of my life, care for those in my life, eat delicious food, be out in the world, see something new every day, appreciate the flowers on my kitchen counter, fall asleep knowing I did my best, and never let anyone tell me I am failing by not craving more. 

Above all and most importantly, I want to be excited to do it all again the next day.