Mark Twain, that masterful iconoclast who was not overly awed by God or the devil, once said that the common concept of heaven, whose denizens had to sing hymns or twang a harp endlessly, held no charms for him.
I am afraid I am forced to agree. Since I can neither carry a tune nor play a musical instrument, I would be a total misfit in heaven, just as I've been on Earth. (I love solitude and silence. Eternal music is not for me.)
So I would hope God would let me be a hymn writer or a helper in heaven's gardens — or both.
Since I have never aspired to live in a mansion, my idea of the perfect heavenly home would be a modest cottage with a morning-gloried wrap-around porch, complete with an oak swing. It would be even more heavenly with lilacs, roses and hollyhocks growing around the porch.