I'm in the Lightning Lane to Heaven

 

I'm in the Lightning Lane to Heaven

The heart attack hit me somewhere between Space Mountain and the Haunted Mansion. One moment I was arguing with my daughter about whether we should spring for Genie+ tomorrow, and the next I was on my back, staring up at the Florida sky while a teenager in a Frontierland costume called for help.

I didn't feel the panic I'd always imagined. Just a strange, floating calm. And then—darkness.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a queue. Not just any queue. The most perfectly designed queue I'd ever seen. It curved and switchbacked through clouds that glowed like they'd been lit by Disney Imagineers, past gardens that would make Epcot's horticulturists weep with envy. Soft music played from somewhere—not quite a hymn, not quite a soundtrack, but something that made my chest feel lighter.

A sign overhead read: "HEAVEN - STANDBY WAIT TIME: ETERNITY."

And next to it, in gleaming letters: "LIGHTNING LANE ENTRANCE →"

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

An angel—at least, I assumed she was an angel, with the wings and the gentle radiance—appeared beside me with a tablet. "Welcome! I see you have... oh my. Platinum Annual Passholder status. FastPass legacy credentials. And you paid extra for MaxPass in 2019 even though you knew it was a scam." She looked impressed. "Right this way, sir."

"Wait," I said. "This can't be how it works."

She smiled. "Would you prefer the standby line? No judgment. Some people feel it's more authentic."

I looked at the regular queue. It stretched into infinity, literally. People shuffled forward at a glacial pace, looking peaceful but resigned. Then I looked at the Lightning Lane, where people were practically gliding through pearly gates that opened and closed with a satisfying whoosh.

"This seems... unfair," I said.

The angel's expression softened. "You spent your whole life optimizing for efficiency. Studying park maps. Downloading apps. Waking up at 6:59 AM to grab virtual queue spots. You turned what should have been joy into strategy." She gestured at the standby line. "Most of these people? They just wandered through life, taking it as it came. They're in no hurry now."

"So I'm being rewarded for being... neurotic?"

"You're being given exactly what you wanted. The fast way in." She paused. "Though between you and me? The people in standby get the same heaven. Same everything. They just spend more time in line thinking about what matters. Processing. Making peace. Some of the best conversations happen in that queue."

I looked at both lines again. In standby, I could see people talking, embracing, even laughing. In the Lightning Lane, people moved through solo, efficiently, eyes forward.

"Can I..." I hesitated. "Can I switch lines?"

The angel grinned. "Now that's not in the official policy manual. But yeah. You can absolutely switch lines."

I took a step toward standby, then stopped. "How long is the wait, really?"

"However long you need it to be," she said.

I got in line behind a woman who looked like someone's grandmother. She turned and smiled at me.

"First time?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "You?"

"Oh no, honey. I've been in this line for what feels like a wonderful little while. Met my parents again about sixty people back. Made friends with a Buddhist monk. Learned I'd been pronouncing 'evangelical' wrong my whole life." She chuckled. "There's no rush."

I settled in, and the line moved forward—slowly, perfectly, inevitably.

And somewhere in the distance, I heard my daughter's voice, very faint: "Dad always had to optimize everything."

I smiled. Not this time, sweetie.

Not this time.