When I get there, I know who I’ll see first— my Savior, my King, the One who never left me, even when the world did. And after that embrace— so deep it heals every wound— I’ll hear the soft shuffle of paws, the chirp, the squeak, the joyful stampede of souls I once loved. Dogs with eyes full of knowing, cats curled in quiet grace, squirrels and chipmunks bounding ahead, raccoons peeking from behind trees, skinks flickering across stone, mice and voles with tiny pink feet, a shy groundhog or two waddling near, snakes twining gently through the grass, and birds—so many birds— singing the songs we never knew they remembered. He’ll smile and say, “These were always Mine— but I saved them for you.” And oh, the home He’s made for us, with trees that never fade, rivers that dance like light, and a field where white horses wait, each one saddled for the saints. Because when we return with Him, it won’t be in silence— but in triumph, in truth, with justice behind and glory before. And maybe, just maybe, some of those I prayed for will walk through the gates one day too— late, but not lost. Until then, I pray. I wait. And I hold the door open.