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Palm Sunday marks Jesus’ triumphant return to Jerusalem. Certainly, the disciples had no clear idea that a few days later would be a crucifixion. But Jesus must have known. And He must have known, too, that a week later there would be a Resurrection. And a after that, a homecoming more glorious than any Palm Sunday.

I’ve often wondered what it was like when Jesus came home to heaven. I imagine, the Father must have longed to see the Son as much as the Son longed to see the Father. I am certain that theologians have a lot to say about the matter. I am no theologian, but I have been to enough journeys to know what it is like to long for home with every fiber of my being.

And as wonderful and full of love as my earthly home is, there are moments when I long to be somewhere else, as though I am merely at a pit-stop. And my faith teaches that it is because I was not meant for this world.

People talk about "heaven on earth" and how something "feels like heaven" but very few people talk about heaven itself. Most people would say that since nobody ever came back to tell us about it, then it’s pointless to speculate. Or that it’s bound to be greater than anything we know, so we might as well get surprised. But I can’t help but think, people no longer talk about heaven because our culture often makes us forget that it is there. We’ve somehow managed to convince ourselves that unless we take the best things out of life, we’re going to waste it. That we’ve got to get a piece of heaven for ourselves because no one’s going to give it to us. Or worse, since in heaven, we’ll be denied all earthly pleasures, we should immerse ourselves in it now.

I think about heaven sometimes. I figure, if as a Christian, it is my duty to help build God’s kingdom here on earth, I should spend some part of my life dreaming about what that kingdom is like. After all, they say that every successful undertaking begins with a dream.

Of course, I’d be lying if I said that I think about how to bring justice on earth and peace and goodwill toward all men all the time when I dream about heaven. Because, most of the time, I get stuck on rather mundane stuff. Like for example I wonder if everybody will dress alike in heaven in long flowing robes like they show in movies. Or if we get there in the clothes we’re buried in. Or if we get to pick our favorite from a long stack of clothes. I wonder if there will be beaches there and mountain tops. I wonder if I will be old or young or if there will be pets. I wonder too if there’ll be chocolate.

But for the most part, I wonder what saints do. I sometimes imagine them hanging out in groups talking about their life on earth and what crazy things people on earth are praying for. And sometimes, I imagine them praying, helping us work for faith, hope and love. And then I imagine what it’ll be like to meet those saints whose names I call on so often. Will St. Anthony tell me where that wallet I lost so long ago really was? And will St. Jude tell me how I passed that Economics final exam back in college? Will I stop and stare and stammer when I see the Mother of God because she is so breathtakingly beautiful? And what exactly does one say to Jesus when He knows everything? And when I think about meeting Him, everything else pales in comparison.

For ultimately, I think that’s what heaven is—the best version of home. I’ve always had this problem with sleeping in strange places. I get anxious and jittery and wind up not sleeping at all. But when I am home, I can sleep in any room in the house, in anyone’s bed and at any time. So I think, that’s what my version of heaven is, a place where everywhere is comfortable, where everything is in its place, where no one is a stranger, where love lasts forever and where the One I love is waiting for me.