Heaven

I’ll never forget the day I caught a glimpse of heaven in Levuka, Fiji on the island of Ovalau. It was my husband’s and my first visit to the old capital.

The ferryboat journey from the mainland to Ovalau would have been wearisome if not for the company of hundreds of indigenous citizens traveling to the annual Methodist convention. These striking, chocolate brown natives never stopped smiling and peppered us with innocent questions.

On arrival, our new Fijian friends directed us to the Royal Hotel, the oldest inn in the South Pacific. At reception, we asked, “Please, do you have a room?” and the wizened woman clucked her tongue and glanced at the wall clock. The clock remained silent as she offered us the last room. We grabbed the key and hurried up rickety stairs. Our room was a set out of Tales of the South Pacific – clapboard walls, a bed covered in faded floral sheets, one chair and mosquito net. We took turns in our tiny shower and dropped into bed.

Deep in the night, I discerned celestial music. I opened my eyes and saw nothing. It wasn’t just melody but angels singing too – tender voices – highs and lows melting together. I groped for Oscar’s hand asking, “Do you hear what I hear?”

“Yeah” he said in a hushed voice, “Where are we?”

“I think we’re dead but in a good place.” I replied.

I looked out the window and darkness stared back. We lay listening until, at some point; one sole bird and then many joined the chorus. A tiny bit of light warmed the sky. As dawn came we looked out on the virgin morning on a rugby field filled with true believers strewn into a dozen groups, each a different color. Looking left were ample women in violet dresses, far right – stately men in pale blue sulus - Fijian men’s traditional skirts, elsewhere – coral dresses, and so on; forming a majestic, pastel rainbow.

And they sang. One group would start a hymn and, as they ended, another began. The singing followed us as we toured Levuka – into town, up the 199 steps to Mission Hill, and to the Ovalau Club for a cold Fiji bitter. Details of the day fade beyond the blissful singing – constant and melodious. Never-ending; it seeped through our pores.

That night we fell asleep early, still surrounded by harmonies. Much later, sound asleep, I jerked awake. Something was amiss.

“Oscar!” I whispered, feeling anxious, “Something’s wrong. What’s happened?”

“It’s OK, love”, he sighed. “The music just stopped. The choir competition is over. We’re back on earth.”