Subtitle: Peeking behind the curtain of death

Excerpt: Anne Hope explores the afterlife, drawing from Christian faith and personal experiences. She emphasizes the immortality of the soul and the importance of belief in Jesus Christ for eternal life. Death is a doorway to a new existence, where the spirit continues and experiences clarity and awareness. Heaven is a place of comfort, joy, and fulfillment.

Author: Anne Hope

What will the first minute after we die feel like?

That question has a way of slipping into the quiet moments late at night, during sickness and funerals, or in hospital corridors that smell faintly of antiseptic and finality. It haunts some people. It terrifies others.

Most of us, if we’re honest, shove it aside. The not knowing is too heavy. So we distract ourselves with noise, routine, and small urgencies, hoping the question will lose interest in us.

For those who subscribe to certain philosophies, the possibilities seem bleak or exhausting to me. Rebirth after rebirth, endlessly cycling toward some vague perfection. Or worse, nothingness. A lights-out universe where love, memory, and meaning evaporate like breath on glass.

Neither option has ever satisfied me. They feel too small, too vague, and too dismissive of the ache we carry for permanence inside us. If this life is all there is, then why does everything in us resist that idea so fiercely?

I’ve never been able to believe we are accidents with expiration dates.

The Serendipity of Faith

Christianity didn’t come to me through childhood habit or cultural inheritance. I wasn’t born into a churchy family. No one handed me a belief system and told me to keep it safe.

I happened upon faith quite by accident, or providence, depending on your viewpoint. It was a hot, late August day, heavy with humidity, which added to the unbearable southern heat that suffocated your pores.

On that particular day, I crept inside the large wooden door of a church while walking home from school to escape the oppressive mugginess. Anywhere was better than going to an empty home, especially since we had no air conditioning.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shadows, but I saw no one in the expansive room with stained glass windows and a large wooden cross behind the platform. The coolness was a blast of bliss to my sweaty body. I wanted to stay there forever.

I looked for a place to squirrel away in the cool without being noticed by anyone who might happen to walk into the room. The only place that seemed private to me was underneath the long wooden benches that were placed in rows throughout the room. I would later come to know these as “pews.”

I quietly tiptoed to the back of the room and slid under a pew to lie face-up on the floor and soak in the cool relief. From that very first moment, I felt I was not alone. In fact, it seemed perfectly natural to strike up a conversation with God. It was, after all, His house.

Hi God, it’s me. I guess You know I’m here. Thanks for letting me visit so I can get cooled down. Boy, is it hot out there! I don’t really know You, but I’ve heard You’re really nice and that You love people. And my aunt told me that You love people just as they are. Well, God, I’m not much, but I’m happy to meet You. If You don’t mind, I’ll just lie here a while. If You have something to say to me, I’ll be listening.

Thus began a regular habit of stopping by God’s house. Each day, I peeped in through the door to see if anyone was in the room. If not, I slipped quietly in and lay down on the plush carpeted floor underneath a pew.

As I lay there, I whispered in conversation to God. He was always very real to me. They weren’t “holy” conversations. I just told Him about my day, about my worries and fears. I excitedly gave my account of the home run in kickball at recess or my prowess in dodgeball.

He was my one true friend in a difficult childhood who never let me down. I don’t know why I felt that way. I suppose faith truly is a gift!

Somehow, I knew God was always waiting for me each day as I walked home. And somehow, lying there on the floor underneath that pew, I felt closer to Him.

It all seemed so normal to me. I felt His presence, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt He was listening.

And then, I would lie there in the quiet to see if He’d tell me anything. Sometimes, He did. I could perceive Him inside my head. I heard His laughter, felt His joy, and sensed His love for me. It was so very real.

Later, I persuaded my grandfather to take me to that church for a service. But as I grew older, I grew more skeptical. I approached Christianity the way C.S. Lewis did…with arms crossed, prepared to dismantle it piece by piece.

Instead, the more I examined it, the more it refused to fall apart. The history, prophecy, internal coherence, and eyewitness testimony all held. Uncomfortably so. Eventually, disbelief required more faith than belief.

Prompted by Leonard

Recently, I read a story by one of my favorite writers on this platform, Leonard Tillerman.

Leonard writes about many subjects, including the battles he faces as he fights a cancer diagnosis. This particular story posed questions about the afterlife, and since Leonard identifies as a Christian, I found myself returning to Scripture with a specific curiosity. What does it say about life after death? What happens right after we die? That first minute, the crossing?

I know people approach these questions from varied backgrounds and beliefs. Some will argue with this story. Some will bristle. Some may feel comforted, others unsettled.

My aim isn’t persuasion. Conviction belongs to God, not to me. But curiosity is universal, and I believe there’s value in peeking, albeit carefully, behind the curtain.

What does Scripture say?

According to the Bible, we live but one life. Not many. Not endlessly recycled versions of ourselves. One life, followed by eternity. C.S. Lewis famously said it best.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations — these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit — immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. (C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory)

We have never met a mere mortal. Every person we encounter is immortal. The only question is where that immortality unfolds.

Christianity presents a dividing line that is stark and unapologetic: belief in Jesus Christ, who is fully God, fully man, crucified for man’s sin, resurrected on the third day after death, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father. That belief, according to Christianity, determines not only eternity but the immediate destination of the soul after death.

The concept of Hell and Hades

The Bible uses multiple words that English translations typically flatten into the single term “Hell.” But in actuality, these multiple words have multiple meanings. In the Old Testament, the Hebrew word “Sheol” appears most frequently. It describes the realm of departed spirits, the place souls go immediately after physical death. It is not the final judgment.

What’s striking is that Sheol appears to have regions. The righteous and the unrighteous do not experience Sheol the same way. All souls continue. All are conscious. Death is not annihilation, ceasing to exist. It is relocation. The righteous will live in one level, and the unrighteous (unbelieving) will live in another level.

The New Testament, written in Greek, uses the word Hades for this same realm. And here, the curtain pulls back further. Jesus Himself tells a story in Luke 16 that illustrates what happens when we die.

A rich man lives in luxury, indifferent to the suffering of others. A beggar named Lazarus lies at his gate, starving. Both die. Instantly, their paths diverge. Lazarus enters a place of comfort and peace. The rich man awakens in torment. Between them is a chasm which is vast, fixed, and uncrossable. Destiny, once entered, is irreversible.

What’s most unsettling is not the suffering, but the awareness. Both men are conscious. They remember their lives. They speak. They feel joy or anguish. The rich man understands his failure with painful clarity. He even begs for someone to warn his family, not out of self-pity, but because his regret has sharpened into concern.

So what awaits us?

The first minute after death, according to Jesus, is not confusion or sleep. It is clarity.

Scripture repeatedly describes the body as a temporary dwelling, a tent, a house that wears out. The spirit, however, does not decay. Death is not an end, but a vehicle. For those who believe, it’s a chariot to an amazing homecoming. For the unbeliever, it’s a stagecoach to unending suffering and sadness.

The transport apparently happens immediately, for when Jesus was on the cross, one of the thieves believed Jesus was who He said He was.

And Jesus replied, “I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:44)

He didn’t promise eventual peace or distant restoration. Not later. Not after centuries of waiting. That day.

Our final, resurrected bodies will come later, at the return of Christ. But Scripture makes it clear that even in the interim, we are recognizable. We have some type of body.

One night before Jesus was crucified, he went to pray on a mountain with some of his disciples. Jesus began to shine, transfigured by a bright light. Alongside him, two others suddenly appeared. The disciples immediately recognized Moses and Elijah, men who had died long ago. Men they had never met. But Moses and Elijah spoke. They could see. They wore white robes on their bodies. Identity endured.

And what is it like after the first minute?

According to Scripture, all indications point to continuity. You will still be you, not a ghostly abstraction, not a blank slate. Your personality remains. Your memory sharpens. Love deepens. You will recognize others instantly, without introductions or name tags. Knowledge will feel complete, not overwhelming.

Love does not disappear in Heaven. It intensifies. Those you loved on earth, you will love there, freed from jealousy, fear, and loss. Your love for God will eclipse everything else, not by erasing human affection, but by perfecting it.

Heaven is not static or dull. It is not eternal idleness or boredom. Scripture suggests meaningful activity, purpose, and cultivation of gifts. The talents you carried imperfectly on earth may find their full expression there.

Emotion continues, especially joy. Scripture tells us God will wipe away every tear, which implies tears exist at some point. Perhaps grief over what was lost, or tears of awe at what was gained. But God will explain everything we’ve been through. Sorrow will not linger. Nothing broken will remain broken.

Our resurrected bodies will be imperishable. No disease, no decay, no limitations. Jesus showed us after His resurrection what such a body can do. He appeared suddenly in locked rooms. He moved instantly from one place to another. He ate, spoke, and allowed others to touch Him. He was recognizable, yet gloriously changed. And Scripture says we will be like Him.

Heaven itself is described as a city. The “New Jerusalem” will be vast, luminous, and unimaginably beautiful. A place prepared, not improvised. Revelation 21 even tells us the exact dimensions.

Death, then, is not the end of the road. It is a doorway.

I find comfort in the following passage.

But you must not forget this one thing, dear friends: A day is like a thousand years to the Lord, and a thousand years is like a day. (2 Peter 3:8).

Heaven works on a different timetable. God is not limited by the same constraints of time. Time is simply not an issue with God.

I’ve never met Leonard in person. I know his battle with cancer has been ongoing for a while. It’s only human to think about the end of this life. We all do, even if we try to avoid it.

Leonard, if you were to die tomorrow, I feel confident in saying this. From an earthly perspective, it might be years before I have the opportunity to meet you there. But from Heaven’s perspective, I’ll see you in about 10 minutes, buddy! And I’m looking forward to it.