Friendship with the Saints and Longing for Eternity

“Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

A famous passage from the Confessions of St. Augustine describes a conversation he has with his mother, St. Monica, as they prepare to return from Italy to their native North Africa. Monica’s tearful prayers have been answered; Augustine has embraced the Catholic Faith. Their conversation is permeated by the Holy Spirit, and as they talk about Heaven, they almost feel as though they have been transported there. “We were in the present—and in the presence of Truth,” Augustine writes, “discussing together what is the nature of the eternal life of the saints: which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither has entered into the heart of man” (Confessions, Bk. IX, Ch. X, 23). Within the week, Monica dies before they can begin their journey, and Augustine must depart for Africa without her.

One of my friends often brings up Heaven in our conversations and correspondence. As someone who at times wrestles with depression, contemplating Heaven is a great source of consolation for him, and he’s asked me many times if I think about it, too. I used to say that I didn’t, but over the years, I have begun to think about Heaven more and more, partly because of the positive influence of his friendship, and partly because of my friendships with the saints.

For most of my life, I didn’t have a strong devotion to any saints because I wasn’t taught much about them. I also didn’t spend much time pondering Heaven, for a couple of reasons. First, in spite of having a vivid imagination since childhood and being a habitual daydreamer, I’ve always really struggled to imagine what Heaven might be like. I suppose that in some sense, I didn’t want to get it wrong. Scripture tells us that we can’t imagine “what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9), so why should I try?

The second reason is more humbling to admit: I have a lot of earthly attachments. As messed up as the world is, I love being alive in it. I recently heard an anecdote about a priest explaining to a child that when a person dies and goes to Heaven, they become a saint. The child burst into tears, protesting that he didn’t want to be a saint anymore because he didn’t want to die (at least not before he realized his dream of playing professional baseball), and part of me still feels that way. I love the people in my life, my cozy little house, my cats, books, art museums, Shakespeare plays, traveling, dancing, coffee and dessert. Leaving all of that behind, especially for something that I can’t envision, seems like a pretty huge ask. I know I shouldn’t love the world so much, but I do.

Fortunately, encountering the saints on pilgrimage has begun shifting my perspective. I’ve realized that I can imagine something concrete about Heaven because I know it will be filled with the faces of my friends, the saints. And if they’ve faced death and conquered it with Christ, then the prospect of dying and leaving this world behind doesn’t seem quite so daunting. Additionally, things that once seemed grotesque— like first-class relics and earthly remains on display in crystal coffins— are now actually comforting sights to me because the saints are people I know and love. Let me give a few examples.

When I first visited the crypt of my patron saint, Clare of Assisi, as a high-schooler in 2003 and saw that her body was visible to pilgrims, I was shocked. Why would the Poor Clares keep their foundress’s earthly remains on display, even if her face is covered by a wax mask? Weird! But in spite of my initial repugnance, I felt an almost magnetic pull to remain there in the crypt and pray. I knelt and sobbed (and made my mom, who was with me, more than a little concerned), and I just kept saying to myself: “She’s real. She’s really real.” I’d read stories about Clare since I was little, but I’d never been face-to-face with the reality of her earthly life and death. She has since taught me to remember that holiness is ultimately much simpler than I think it is. One of the quotes attributed to her is: “Love God, serve God; everything is in that.”

I’ve also experienced great consolations at the tomb of St. Paul, who has become one of the spiritual fathers of my vocation to consecrated virginity. When I first visited the Basilica of St. Paul outside the Walls in Rome with four of my best friends back in 2011, we were kneeling together in the confessio (the recessed part of the basilica floor close to the saint’s tomb under the main altar), each praying silently for our intentions and our future vocations. I was struck powerfully by a sense of Paul’s fatherly care and tenderness, and the truth that he wanted us to discover and flourish in our vocations even more than we did. (What’s especially cool about this experience is that now, two of those friends are diocesan priests, one is a husband and father, I’m consecrated, and the fourth friend is in formation for her vocation. God is good!)

I could probably write an entire book about the saints I have come to know and love through pilgrimage, but the last one I’ll mention is Pope St. John Paul II. Remember what I said before, about how I struggle with loving the world too much? I feel like this is a struggle JPII could probably empathize with. He was known for his athletic hobbies and his jovial, fun-loving personality, and he once joked: “I have a sweet tooth for song and music. This is my Polish sin.” More importantly, in following his vocation, he came to recognize that “earthly loves,” like friendship, art, poetry, and theater, could be a path to God. Each time I stop to pray at his tomb in St. Peter’s Basilica, I feel like I’m saying hello to a beloved grandfather who’s proudly watching me grow into my God-given calling.

Cultivating friendships with earthly friends who like to contemplate the promise of eternal life and heavenly friends who are already experiencing its joys has helped instill in my heart a longing for eternity that I didn’t have before. The Good Thief expresses this longing— awakened by his encounter with the Crucified Lord— when he asks Jesus: “Remember me when You come into Your kingdom” (Luke 23:42). The saints help me to also find hope in Jesus’ encouraging reply: “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). There’s no need to fear leaving this life behind because He waits for us— and all the saints wait for us— in Heaven.