The Southside of Heaven

The air on the southside of heaven always had a certain hum to it, a low, resonant frequency that vibrated through the soles of your feet and settled deep in your bones. It wasn't the angels singing hymns, not the pearly gates swinging open; it was the sound of life, raw and unfiltered, played out on streets where innocence often got lost in translation. This was my heaven, a place I’d carved out of the wreckage, tempered by fire, and now, a launching pad.

I sat on the stoop of a building that had seen better days, the chipped paint a testament to years of neglect, much like the souls I aimed to help. The sun, a relentless orb in the sky, beat down, but it felt like a blessing, a warmth that chased away the lingering chill of betrayal. I wasn’t Jesus, not by a long shot, but I understood the weight of carrying the world’s sins, of bleeding for those who couldn’t even see their own wounds. Greed and hate had tried to pin me down, to bury me under a mountain of lies and fabricated charges, but they underestimated the spirit that God had woven into my being. They’d underestimated the warrior He’d forged in the crucible of my pain.

“You alright, Lu?”