By Fr. JLucas. 3 November 2026

October going into November felt like a hundred years to me.

In October, I lost someone I loved so much. On the 2nd of November, I remembered those whom death has robbed me of, especially this year: my beloved grandmother, sister to my grandfather, Maitu Veronica. Shush Vero. At Mass I said the Eucharistic prayer for the dead: “Remember also our brothers and sisters who have fallen asleep in the hope of the resurrection…” I was left wondering after Mass. I looked at my watch, where Fidel’s picture is printed, and I asked what I could not answer. What does heaven look like?

As I pray for the dead, let me write this letter, especially to Fidel, and to Shush Vero. I do not know how to speak to both of you at once. So I will ask him. Shush Vero, I trust you are near enough to hear your name.

Dear Fidel,

Do you wake with the light, or is it always day? Do the angels know your name when you walk their way? Is there music in the air? Do you finally feel free? I know you loved music.

Fidel, do you ever look down and still think about your mom, your aunt? Do you miss taking Jayden to school? Because I miss those snaps you used to take. By the way, I deleted Snap, since you let the streaks die.

Do you have your smile? Do you laugh like before? Is there somebody waiting when you step through the heavenly door? I imagine you peaceful, as I saw you lying in that coffin. No fear in your chest. No more pain in your body. Just, finally, rest. I wish you could snap me and show me. How is heaven?

Is it everything they say? Are the streets really golden? Does the hurt all fade away? I hope you found the peace that this world could not give. I am still learning how to lose you. I have you on my wallpaper. I want to print your picture and have it on my desk, so the day has to pass your face before it gets to me.

You are learning how to live in heaven, I guess. Maybe you are by the silanga, the dam, where the water stays still. Maybe time does not matter. Maybe years feel like one, while your death feels like a long dream to me. Maybe you do not miss the night, because you live near the sun.

Do you sing with the choir? Do you stand near the throne? Or do you serve Mass, as you used to when you were young? By the way, your cousin Mbinya misses you so much. She told me they call you “Father Fidel.” Do you feel all the love that we should have shown?

Do you know every word that I never could say on our last call? Do my prayers reach heaven when I whisper your name? Snap me. Let me have a picture of what heaven is. I picture God beside you, saying, “You can let go,” showing you the answers we were never meant to know.

Maybe you saw me that afternoon, when Mommy sent the funeral pictures and the video. I have never cried so painfully. That night I was told you were not there. “We lost Fidel on the 4th of October”. It was the darkest of all nights this year.

Fidel, maybe you are the reason I still look for the light. And I know I cannot call you. I cannot hear your reply. I cannot get those snaps. So I talk to the ceiling and imagine the sky. I will keep carrying your love until my own journey ends. Then you can tell me all about heaven, my friend.