I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a
mission to interview God for a paper.
"He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will
like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes
being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and
God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."
This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a
journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.
I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a
Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had
ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no
visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three
inches above the head, not exactly shining but luminous. At night
they must be very effective--if there is any night in Heaven. I
wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I
didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be
no next time.
Of course I don't mean that I should have troubled God about these
trifles; I should have found one of the young angels who were
everywhere and asked him; or I should have sent for one of my
friends who died in the War....
Should I? I wonder if I should have dared....
Meanwhile St. Peter waits. "What do you want?" he asked.