I recently saw a meme of a man arriving at the Pearly Gates. He was dead and he knew it. (This is not a near-death story.) I thought of this man, who had shed his physical frame moments before, having a conversation with the Keeper of the Gate.

Keeper of the Gate: How was heaven?

Man: I don’t know yet. May I come in?

Keeper of the Gate: Hold on. Before that, please tell me how heaven was.

Man: I’m confused. I just left Earth. I want to come into heaven.

Keeper of the Gate: Did you not enjoy the heaven I created for you: the sun dependably and artistically arising as songbirds announced a new day; the stars sparkling majestically in a nighttime sky; the variegated greens of pinyon, redwood, aspen, and maple; the fragrances of rose, lavender, pine, cedar, and citrus? Did you look up at stately mountains, across vast prairies, or feel warm sand under your bare feet as waves lapped at your ankles? Did you delight in the tastes and textures of the fruits and vegetables you ate daily; the companionship of your dog, the purring of your cat; the animals that gave you eggs, milk, cheese, and meat? Did you enjoy being a child of Heavenly Parents and living with their children—your family and friends? Did you get to know them, appreciate their uniqueness, and serve them?

Man: I am deeply sorry. I never thought of Earth as heaven. I could have enjoyed it, cared for it, and expressed gratitude for it all so much more.

Keeper of the Gate: Yes. I know. I created it. I lived there. I called it home.

 A few years ago, I stayed in a six-thousand-square-foot home that belongs to David and Liz who were serving a mission in Africa. This home has two staircases. It is modern, roomy, family-friendly, and filled with things David and Liz enjoy and worked hard to obtain. Richard and I didn’t feel comfortable intruding on their bedroom, so we slept in David’s office, which is large enough to accommodate a queen-size bed.

As I lay there, I noticed a bookcase along one wall with David’s books organized by subject. Above the bookcase I saw the art and artifacts from David and Liz’s travels around the world. I admired his seven-foot roll-top desk and his rust-colored leather sofa sitting grandly on the opposite sides of the room. In an open closet hung his off-season clothes. I noted the four drawers of a filing cabinet—two labeled “church,” one labeled “financial,” and one “miscellaneous” that stood as quiet reminders that David was elsewhere.

We prepared meals in David and Liz’s kitchen, used their gas range, opened their refrigerator, and wiped off their granite countertops. We sat on their couches, walked on their floors of tile, hardwood, imported rug, and patterned carpet. I sat at their tables, used their bathrooms, played their grand piano, sat on their porch, looked at their grow boxes, admired the landscaping, and felt responsibility as a caretaker. Even though their address was temporarily our address, we were guests.

When we invited people to come visit us, they were actually their guests as well.

I felt what David and Liz were willing to sacrifice for eighteen months. I thought of them missing grandchildren’s births and birthdays, the camaraderie of their children and siblings who live close by, and their aging parents who will continue to age. I thought of them leaving their “normal” lives, their friends, their employment, their robust ward and stake.

I thought of the risk and vulnerability of allowing another family to live in their home, of the inevitable wear and tear. I thought of the home’s security system and wondered if they were feeling safe in their meager apartment in Africa. Then I recalled that this was the second time David and Liz had gone to Africa. A few years before, they had served three years as mission leaders in one of Africa’s poorest nations. I deeply sensed their level of sacrifice, commitment, even consecration. What more could they place on the Lord’s altar?

When we returned to our home, I understood a truth I had not appreciated before staying in David and Liz’s home. I saw my books, furniture, closets with my belongings. I thought of my garden and my yard, on my street, in my city, state, and nation. I thought of this planet in this solar system, in this galaxy, in this universe, and knew. It is not my earth, nation, state, or city. It is not my home, furnishings, clothes, and books. I have received stewardship not ownership. It all belongs to the Lord, He who created and oversees all.

I realized I live in someone else’s home, a home filled with His personal creations—His oxygen to breathe and His water to quench my thirst. “The herb, and the good things which come of the earth, whether for food or for raiment, or for houses, or for barns, or for orchards, or for gardens, or for vineyards; yea, all things which come of the earth, in the season thereof, are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart; yea, for food and for raiment, for taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and to enliven the soul” (D&C 59:17-19).

It is all His. Even my body created in His image. “And I, God, created man in mine own image, in the image of mine Only Begotten created I him; male and female created I them” (Moses 2:27). I belong to the Creator who bought me with the price of His Atonement. “What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

If I am asked when I arrive at the Pearly Gates, how heaven was, I will fall on my knees to worship the Creator, the Keeper of the Gate. I will praise Him and thank Him for the earthly heaven He provided. In humility and intense desire, I hope to hear Him say, “You are no more a stranger or a guest but like a child at home. Come, ‘dwell in the house of the Lord forever’” (Psalm 23:6).

1. My Shepherd will supply my need;
Jehovah is His Name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wand’ring spirit back
When I forsake His ways,
And leads me, for His mercy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.

2. When I walk thru the shades of death,
Thy presence is my stay;
A word of Thy supporting breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows;
Thine oil anoints my head.

3. The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be mine abode,
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a settled rest
(While others go and come),
No more a stranger or a guest,
But like a child at home.

 (Lyrics: The words of Psalm 23 paraphrased by Isaac Watts (1674–1748). Music: American folk hymn, from Southern Harmony, 1835. This hymn will be in the new hymnal.)