There’s something that happens when you finally hit bottom.
When the mask slips, the lies don’t work, and the people you leaned on disappear. When the money’s dried up, the spotlight’s gone, and the pain is louder than the noise.
You realize—you’re not the hero of your story.
That’s what makes the thief on the cross such a gripping character in "Heaven, How I Got Here." Colin Smith doesn’t dress him up. He doesn’t sanitize the moment. He paints the man as he was: guilty, vulgar, brutal, broken.
And it’s not a tragedy. It’s a triumph.
Because this thief—this throwaway of society—is the poster child of grace. He’s the guy everyone gave up on. He had no second chances left. The justice system had done its job. The sentence was final. His blood would be shed before sundown.
And yet…
He’s the one who made it home.
We like to think that Jesus saves the clean people. The church folks. The ones who “try their best.” But Smith shatters that illusion. The thief is the reminder that God doesn’t save people who deserve it.
He saves people who don’t.
This man didn’t have one good deed to offer. Nothing to balance the scales. Nothing to impress the Judge.
And that’s exactly why he got in.
Because grace is never about what we do—it’s always about what Jesus did.
The thief’s story reminds us: no one is too far gone.
Not the drug addict hiding in plain sight. Not the woman battling shame from a decades-old choice. Not the father who abandoned his family. Not the teen buried under anxiety. Not the angry, not the apathetic, not the self-righteous, not the bitter.
Not even me. Not even you.
The lie that hell loves to whisper is: “You’ve done too much.”
But the cross thunders back: “It is finished.”
That’s what Jesus meant when He said it. And Colin Smith lets us feel it—through the eyes of a dying criminal who finally understood.
The thief saw his life flash before him: the broken homes, the blood on his hands, the cries of those he stole from. He couldn’t undo any of it.
But Jesus could forgive all of it.
And friend, He still does.
There’s a scene in the book where the thief reflects on the irony of his life. He had spent years running from God, from truth, from righteousness. And when he finally stopped running—he found that Jesus had been walking beside him the whole time, waiting for the moment he’d turn.
That moment came at the very end.
And Jesus didn’t say, “It’s too late.”
He said, “Today.”
That’s not just a word of promise. It’s a word of urgency. Because the grace that saves is always ready—but we’re not always promised another breath to ask for it.
The other criminal didn’t ask. He died mocking the only hope he had.
But this thief… this nobody… this man with no legacy and no good reputation… had just enough faith to say one thing:
“Jesus, remember me…”
And that’s all it took.
Heaven’s gates swung open.
The thief’s story reminds us of the scandal of grace. That heaven isn’t a reward for the good—it’s a gift for the guilty who believe.
And if that doesn’t move you, check your pulse.
Because this isn’t just his story—it’s yours. It’s mine. It’s all of ours.
We’re not the Savior. We’re the thief.
And if we’re honest—we’ve all played both roles. We’ve mocked. We’ve denied. We’ve run. We’ve rebelled.
But we can still turn.
And when we do, we find the same pierced Savior, still whispering the same promise: “Today.”
Right now.
Not after you fix it all. Not once you’ve earned it. Not once you’ve cleaned up your mess.
Today.
If you’re breathing, grace is still on the table.
So don’t wait. Don’t gamble eternity on pride. Don’t be the one who dies near Jesus but never knows Him.
Be the one who believed.
Be the one who asked.
Be the one who made it home—not because you were worthy, but because you were willing.
And if that stirs something in you, don’t just sit there. Watch the full-length film adaptation of the book.
Watch it with your kids. Watch it with your spouse. Watch it alone, if you have to.
Let it shake you. Let it soften you. Let it remind you that you are never too far gone.
The Man on the middle cross still saves.
Even now.
Even you.
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