A Writer's Lament

I was asked by my five year old “how long do people stay dead when they die?”
My response was “forever, they go to live in heaven.”
“Well how do they get to heaven?”
“The angels come down to take them.”
“Is it far?”
“Yes, very far.”
“Further than North Carolina?”
“Yep, further than North Carolina.” North Carolina is how she measures distance. That’s the longest trip she has taken in her short life. The inquisitive nature of her sweet little voice left me unsettled. While I am sure that, in that moment, she was satisfied with my responses to those questions, I anticipate the day she returns to the conversation. I dread the day that she returns to that conversation. For, I do not have words to accurately account for ones crossing over. I could explain it—I could try to describe it, but I cannot give life to the idea of everlasting life; the notion of one going to glory. I lament the loss of words. I grieve for the thought that in the broadness of language I am silenced. Silenced by the fact that words are merely an instrument used to communicate ideas, and some ideas are just beyond words. For a child’s sake I cannot reconcile myself with what may be good enough. So when it is revisited I will sit silent and lament the loss of words.