My grandmother would've turned 90 today.

In 1997 my grandmother, Martha McKay Stovall, passed away ten days after her 79th birthday. Below is a picture of her and my grandfather, George Walter Stovall, who died last year at 90. When this photo was taken in the summer of 1947 she was 28 and he was 31. Both were younger than I am now.

Here's something I've wondered about for a while now: Theoretically, heaven is, well, heavenly. You lived a good life, so you're rewarded with eternal happiness. But people generally die when they're old, and who wants to arrive at the pearly gates only to discover that you're going to spend eternity with arthritis, cataracts, and liver spots? 

I wasn't the wisest or most even-tempered 21-year-old, but physically speaking, that's the age at which I was the least self-conscious, so I'd like God to restore my legal-drinking-age features once I get to heaven. And I'd like to be reunited with my grandparents, but would they be in their early 20s—or whatever period of their lives at which they were the least self-conscious—when I meet them again? I'd recognize them, of course, but are family reunions in heaven filled with people who look like they're all in their teens and 20s, with no middle-aged or elderly bodies in sight?