Home is where True Paradise Waits
I gotta get home. Because paradise—without truth—is just a gold ring in a pig’s snout. Period. No matter how glossy it looks, how soft the breeze blows, or how sweet the drink tastes… paradise is absolutely nothing without truth.
It’s a whitewashed, fake diamond glinting on the road to hell. Beautiful, maybe. But hollow. Empty. Completely empty. Fragile as a dream at sunrise. An illusion made of soft light and thinner lies. Because beneath the surface of things… there’s darkness. The kind of soul-deep ache nobody wants to name. And everybody around me? They’re smiling. White sands. Hot feet. Music in the air. Nothing but good vibes.
But they can’t see it.
They can’t see the pain simmering under the surface. The destruction humming beneath their joy. They don’t know the road they’re dancing on is firebound. Because everybody—everybody—is born on the road to hell. It’s not popular. It’s not poetic. It’s the broken truth. Inherited through Adam and Eve. A legacy of sin lodged in the bloodstream of every generation.
And the void? Oh, it’s there. You can’t shake it. None of us can. Because God—He hardwired eternity into the human heart. That deep, aching sense that nothing here ever fully satisfies? That’s Him. That’s the echo of forever ringing in our bones. And only God can fill that eternity-shaped hole.
But here on the beach, under the sun, surrounded by pleasure and laughter and Instagram-worthy smiles—people keep trying. White sand pleasures. Drinks. Food. Sunsets. New experiences. New distractions. Meanwhile, God’s letting the silence grow louder in their hearts. The echo of the void keeps ringing, and they think if they just stuff more fun into the space, it'll stop echoing.
But it doesn’t.
And when you speak truth? They bristle. Rage. Get hostile. They couldn’t see it if it coiled like a snake in their path and struck. Even then, they wouldn’t see it as a warning—they’d call it cruelty. Even if the venom wasn’t death, but truth. A stinging, soul-shaking truth: You're on fire, and you don't even smell the smoke. You're heading toward eternal separation from the only One who ever truly loved you. And they’re angry. Because that doesn’t sound fair. Doesn’t sound democratic. Doesn't sound nice.
It sounds hard-nosed. Conservative. “Christianese.” But what it sounds like doesn’t matter. What is, matters. And what is—is this: truth must be injected like a life-saving antidote. Bitter to the tongue, maybe. But the only shot at life. Because God loved you enough to send His only Son, pierced and bleeding, to hang for you. For you—yes, you. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
We love now… only because He loved first.
And once you cross over—once truth breaks your chest wide open and mercy walks in—you finally see it. You taste sanctification. You feel the peace of the One who made stars. And you understand: paradise was never sand and sunsets. The kingdom doesn’t come with neon signs or utopian slogans. You won’t find it labeled in Orange Beach or legislated in D.C. You won’t even find it hiding under the steeple on Sunday morning if it hasn’t first made its home in your soul.
Because the kingdom of heaven is within you.
That’s the mystery Paul kept shouting about. The treasure hidden in jars of clay. The hope of glory—Christ in you. The God of the universe making peace with the rebel heart of man.
So no—paradise isn’t palm trees and piña coladas. It’s not the ocean view or the perfect day. Paradise is when heaven finds your heart. When truth rewrites your story. When grace smooths your rough edges and fills that vast eternity-shaped hole with something finally, finally, real.
That’s paradise.
And I gotta get home.