I'm probably the holiest person I know. And by that I mean my jeggings are splitting and there are giant holes in every bra I own. Saintly? Dear me, no. The only way I'm getting into heaven is if God gets busy settling in everyone else I know, and I slip St. Peter a fifty.
And St. Peter will say, "Just try not to call attention to yourself."
And I'll smile, duck in, and call over my shoulder. "You won't even notice me. I'm just gonna try and finish writing some blog posts that've taken me an eternity to write anyway."
And we'll both laugh at the clever implication of "eternity" in two different contexts, and pretend not to notice each other in heaven's giant lunch room.