If there was a heaven, was it really all that was good?
Was I really sitting under these huge aspen trees high in the Colorado Rockies with Blondie’s head in my lap as I stroked her perfect fur just as I had when she was at her best? Or was this all in my imagination? I didn’t care. I was here, or some part of me was, and so was she. She lifted her head, and I pressed my forehead to hers; she pressed back. All was good in the world. Whatever world this was.
When someone died, we liked to ease the pain by telling ourselves that they would be reunited with other lost loved ones. I wondered if I’d find out if that’s true. Maybe this was a big spiritual virtual reality, and I could see anyone I wanted. Even without a headset. I could make up any reality. Wouldn’t it make sense that heaven was just that? The best possible you with the best of all you ever knew. Like your life’s Hall of Fame. But then, I wondered if the people I wanted to see wanted to see me. What if someone was in my Hall of Fame, but I was not in theirs?
How did someone already here find out that I’d died? Or maybe there could be multiple versions of the same soul? Was it possible for Jond to live in my heaven and his? Would our relationships be the same as they were when we died? Did relationships grow here? Did they know what became of my life after they died? Would I meet new people, or did I only find the people (and pets) I knew when I was alive? And, for that matter, what did “alive” even mean anymore? And my high school friend, Alvin Ley, who was killed by a drunk uncle . . . was that mentally unstable family member here? More questions. Always haunted by more questions.
Maybe time on earth was virtual reality, and this, let’s just call it “heaven,” for simplicity’s sake, was the real reality. Maybe I was just a character in a video game, and I was now in some state of reset after losing all my heart points. True, it was a pretty fucked-up game if that was the case. Didn’t seem very fun to play a game with a character who emotionally and spiritually tortured himself most of his life. And maybe the biggest question was, who was playing? Who had the controller?
My head was exploding with crazy ideas when Blondie raised her head, started wagging her tail, and, without warning, took off down the trail where we sat. I called to her, but she was gone, just like she used to be when she saw a squirrel behind our old house. I assumed she would come back. She always came back after a good chase. It had been something like forty years since I had seen her run like that. I couldn’t help but smile as tears filled my eyes.
A few minutes later, I saw a man hiking up the trail with Blondie leaping at his side. I squinted to see who it was. Did I know him? From a distance, he looked older, with a scraggly white beard. He was thin, tall, and carried a walking stick in his left hand. His head was covered by an old fedora like the one Indiana Jones wore. He walked slowly toward me, clearly taking in the sights and sounds of the trail. He stopped periodically to glance at the sky—turning his face to the sun—to watch a bird or deer or simply to bend down to give Blondie a little pat on the head. She seemed to know him. I didn’t. I had never seen this man before. He wasn’t in any virtual reality of mine. Was I in his? How did he get into Blondie’s?
As he got closer, I could see how weathered his face appeared. But it was wise. Like Morgan Freeman’s face. I didn’t know how to describe it except to say that he looked like he knew things. An ancient sage. A wizard. Like Obi-Wan Kenobi. His eyes were blue and kind. His smile exposed imperfect, stained teeth and immediately made me feel at ease. Without a word, he removed his beat-up backpack and sat down next to me. Blondie stayed by his side.
“Is this heaven?” I asked.
“It’s not Iowa.” He laughed a kind of belly laugh that made Blondie howl in equal delight.
He slowly reached into his backpack and handed me a white envelope with Erik Bernstein embossed on the front of it. He put his hand on my shoulder, smiled, stood up, threw his pack on his shoulder, and continued up the trail.
“Wait. Please. I have so many questions.” I was begging. “WHERE AM I?”
The wizard didn’t wait. And he didn’t answer. He only kept walking. Just as he had before. Taking his time. Gazing at the sky. Down the trail he went.
Blondie stayed with me and put her head back on my leg as I opened the envelope. Inside was a card, maybe four-by-six, and white with rounded corners. It was designed with the same flowing font as my name on the envelope:
You Are Cordially Invited to Dinner at God’s House.
CHAPTER FIVE
A depressed woman attempts to call her friend. When an unfamiliar voice answers, she realizes she called the wrong number. They talk for hours about life and love. They laugh and cry. They talk about spirituality and death. They remain friends until the old woman passes.
You Are Cordially Invited to Dinner at God’s House.
I read this line repeatedly. Over and over and over again. I stared at it. I read it silently. I read it out loud. I read it to Blondie. Dinner at God’s house? What does that even mean? I looked at her and said the only thing that came to mind. Calmly and slowly: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck. She looked at me with her big, brown eyes and slapped a heavy paw on my arm. She didn’t care at all about dinner. Regardless of the host, she just wanted me to keep petting her. When in doubt, pet the dog. Always pet the dog. Everything will make sense and fall into place if you pet the dog. Even just for a second. I pet the dog.
My secret hope for any afterlife was that there would be no more questions. I had been haunted by questions throughout my life. Questions about my journey. Questions about my decisions. About myself. Each time I couldn’t answer, it left a hole; my soul was riddled with these holes, like a car door in those vintage black-and-white gangster flicks after the bad guys break out their old-school machine guns. Questions nearly drove me to suicide multiple times and kept me in a state of constant ideation. Faster this time, like that machine gun fire: Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.
There was nothing on this card that told me when the dinner was. Where the dinner was. The card didn’t tell me if other people would be there. Or how many. Wait. Wait. Wait! God had a house?
What would I wear? I hadn’t even considered a dress code in this place. I was never very good with dress codes anyway. It always seemed like they were only necessary when I was at my heaviest and nothing in my closet would fit. I even had to rent a suit once. Not a tux. A fucking suit. That was pathetic. Pretty sure there were no suit rentals in heaven. Did I need to RSVP? How? To whom? I supposed I should be able to simply think my acceptance, and God would know to put me down for one. Or it’s likely just assumed I’d be there. Who in their right mind turned down an invitation from God? Then again, that’s exactly what I had done for most of my life.
Could Blondie come? Why did the wizard walk away? Why didn’t he stay to answer my questions? Who was he?
Okay.
Stop spinning.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Think this through.
What if this were just my imagination? Just my mind playing tricks on me in a new and interesting way. The invitation. God’s house. Maybe these things were all merely virtual and not real. Maybe they were nothing more than my deep, unconscious soul finding a way to the surface, into the light, via this heavenly VR.
At various times during my life, I had written a little about God. In journals, mostly, while trying to reconcile my depression or figure out why so many friends were dying. I wondered who and what God was. I wondered what meeting this spirit might be like. But I hadn’t given any real consideration to being invited to dinner with him—him? Her? It? I don’t know. That was too much for me to figure out. I was now talking out loud and explaining all of this to Blondie who seemed to be listening to me with her head cocked. Did she just nod at me? I swear she just nodded at me.
As I babbled on and on to Blondie, who was likely becoming just as sick of my questions as I was, I stumbled upon what might be an answer. Of course, it was in the form of a question. Was this a test of faith? Yes, I told her, this was just a test of faith. Faith. Capital “F.” That had to be it. This was a test. Maybe I was not even in heaven yet. First, I had to pass this test. But how? What did it mean to pass?
Faith was also convoluted and elusive for me. Faith in myself was all but impossible to accept. Faith in some kind of God had always been wrapped up and confused with religion. I didn’t understand religion. I felt like religion wanted to put my experiences in a one-size-fits-all box. It wanted me to act a certain way. It wanted me to react in a certain way. I felt like it wanted to make me feel bad when I didn’t. But, still, throughout my life, even if I didn’t ever speak about it publicly, I felt a pull, a kind of longing to believe in God.
I wanted to have faith in God. Some kind of God. I just didn’t know how without having to buy into the religion part. I felt like faith could come with a kind of culture and artistry. Faith could be spiritual and flexible. Religion just came with rules. Faith, I felt, could give me freedom of imagination and expression. It allowed for mistakes and forgiveness. If religion weighed me down, I felt that faith could give me wings. When there were no answers, “just have faith” was a magnificent prayer. But faith in what? In whom?
I secretly pined for the kind of faith that some of my friends had. The kind that gave them a sort of “no worries” attitude about the most difficult times and decisions. “God’s will,” they would tell me, like it was a giant security blanket that could cover all situations. An answer to any question at any time. How were you able to quit your job and put your family’s financial future at risk? God’s will. How were you able to stay at that horrible job even though you hated it? God’s will. How can you justify the most unspeakably horrible and tragic accidents? God’s will. Never in doubt . . . Just go God. I’d visit my friends in the South where life just felt so easy. It was all in God’s hands. God’s will.
Still, even if it seemed easy, I didn’t like this option. I needed to draw a line of sorts in the sand. For some, God is the only answer to any question. As much as I wanted that security blanket when I needed it, I couldn’t justify this type of thinking. This faith felt blind. Blinded by religion. And, for me, that was going too far.
I remember discussing faith with a close colleague when she challenged me. Deeply religious, she asked, “Why don’t you believe in Jesus? He was a real man.”
At the time, her faith not only felt blind to me but also deaf. It was unable to hear any other viewpoints. Ignoring the whole Jewish thing, feeling judged and defensive, and knowing she was fiercely far right on the political spectrum, I countered with, “You don’t believe in President Obama. He’s a real man.”
Want to kill a friendship? Start talking politics and religion. Her husband stepped in to quickly end the conversation by asking where we wanted to go to eat. Southern BBQ and sweet tea trumped God and politics.
Prior to this near battle, I had gone to a Sunday service with this friend and her husband. Their church was an enormous converted megastore. Aisle five was now kids’ face-painting instead of hardware. Before entering the sanctuary, I felt like I was in Jesus-land. There were photographers taking family pictures. There were huge, multicolored balloons everywhere. Kids ran around as though they were in a Disney movie. Laughing. Playing. Music blasted from what I assumed was the kind of sound system you’d only find at the best concert venues. People greeted each other with hugs and smiles. Uplifting Bible quotes had been painted on the walls. It felt like this was the happiest place on earth. It was difficult not to be overwhelmed with the spirit. I totally got it. More faith-flavored Kool-Aid, please.
As we stepped foot into the sanctuary, I was told the congregation numbered in the tens of thousands. Well over a thousand would be attending the service in person with thousands more tuning in for the live stream that was produced from a control room built by a network-TV veteran executive. Ready camera two. Go camera two. Cue God. A live band greeted us with country Christian rock. I was in the spiritual zone. My mind was open—even as I was skeptical of the religion.
