I passed Julia Child’s kitchen and breathed deeply. The aromas were Heavenly. Julia still loves butter. I was in a rambling mood on another golden day in paradise. As my thoughts flitted, so did my presence. Heaven makes joyful pursuits quite easy. If I envision a place or activity, I am there, everything from white-water rafting to a romantic tango in the moonlight. When I murmur, “Come dance with me,” to Bobby Mac, we move in unison to the pulsing music, his hand warm against my back. I savor the beat and Bobby Mac and my filmy dress of sea green chiffon. Bobby Mac is gorgeous in a white Guayabera shirt and black trousers, quite a change from his usual cream polo and khaki shorts when fishing from Serendipity or his blue work shirt and Levi’s when out on an oil rig. As we say in Adelaide, he cleans up real nice.

Do I sense bewilderment? Heaven? Julia Child’s kitchen? A tango in the moonlight? Adelaide? Oh yes, all of that and more. If we haven’t met before, I’ll introduce myself. I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven when our cabin cruiser, the faithful Serendipity, sank during a storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac has been my man ever since high school, when he was a darkly handsome senior and I was a redheaded sophomore. We lived a happy life, which has only been better since arriving in Heaven.

Heaven is, I assure you, quite Heavenly. Everything good, everything honorable, everything beautiful is here. Earth, as we all know, is beset with sin and strife, which is why I sometimes yearn to return.

Not that I wish to dabble in sin.

Heaven forbid. Instead, I like to lend a helping hand to those in trouble. I remember well that I received boosts, some surprising, some unaccountable, that got me past rough patches in my life. That’s why, delightful as Heaven is, I revel in returning to earth as a special emissary from the Department of Good Intentions.

I’ve been honored to serve as an emissary three times. However, eager as I was to serve once again, my steps slowed.

Just around the curve of a golden-hued cloud, a small train station nestled against a green hill. The station served as the headquarters of the department under the kindly direction of Wiggins, who had been a stationmaster on earth.

I sighed and stopped. I didn’t quite have the courage to swing around the cloud and see the small red-brick station with silver rails that ran into the sky.

I studied the intervening cloud, made glorious by incandescent streaks of gold and rose. Have I ever described the majestic puffs of cloud that delineate a change from one destination to another? I’m not talking about cool, damp particles of mist. Heaven’s clouds are silky soft, as luxurious to touch as fluff from a cottonwood. I’ve always loved cottonwoods, and they are everywhere in Oklahoma . . .

I reined in my thoughts. Cottonwoods were all well and good— and I’m sure it is of interest to realize there is nothing chilling and wet should you plunge into a glorious white column—but there was a time and place for memories of cottonwoods. I was pondering clouds to avoid an approach to the department, even though Wiggins would welcome me warmly. Wiggins has a smile as reassuring as the dancing flames in a winter fireplace, but he is rather a stickler for following rules. His emissaries have a list of strict dos and don’ts. Truth to tell—and Heaven always expects truth—I’m not awfully good at rules. Some might say I am a bit impetuous. Oh, all right. I think fast, move fast, and sometimes I leave rules in my dust.