On Heaven as in Earth Part I

There are relatively few things I remember about my 43 years of life, but one day in particular stands out to me with raw clarity. It was the day I died.

It is a rare thing to die at church, though there were some long-winded sermons where I wondered if I might. I remember the day of my death so well because I was teaching Sunday School to the 3^rd and 4^th graders. Larissa Gardner had asked me a question about heaven. Larissa was the chattiest child in her class. It is a mystery to me how two of the quietest parents in church could have produced such a talker.

“What’s heaven like, Mr. James?” She asked. And she said this in the present tense, as if I had been there.

“I’m not sure if anyone really knows.” I said. I mean, really. What do you say to an eight-year-old about a topic theologians have conjectured about for centuries?

“Some artists in the Middle Ages,” I told her, “painted people on clouds or hanging out with angels.”

Larissa was nowhere near satisfied with that answer, her large brown eyes drilling into me for more.

Finally, she said, “How about you, Mr. James? What do you think it’s like?”

It is a terrifying thing to be asked an existential question by an eight-year-old. There is no hiding from the won’t-buy-your-bullshit look on their faces. You’ve got to strain out all the philosophizing evasiveness that adults use on each other and get to the nub of a thing.

“Well,” I said. “I imagine it’s very differently than life here on earth. It might be like you’d picture another universe. Maybe there are colors we’ve never seen here on earth. I’ll bet there are strange and wonderful things never before seen.”

“Like dinosaurs?” She said.

“Like dinosaurs.” I replied. “I’d also like to think that I’ll be able to fly. And I suppose I’ll get to spend time with my grandparents who died when I was young. Hear about their lives and get to know them.”

“Will there be Sunday School in heaven?” She asked.

“I doubt it. I don’t think there’ll be need for it.”

Larissa seemed pleased with this answer.

“Then you’ll be out of a job.” She said rather cleverly.

“Well, this job at least.” I admitted.

“Then, what will an of us actually do in heaven?” Larissa asked.

I sensed this was at the nub of her curiosity. Truthfully, I had never really given much thought about how one spends their time in heaven, and I think she could see she had me stumped. Finally, I gave the answer I supposed our pastor would have wanted me to give. This was Sunday School after all.

“Well. I guess we’ll spend a lot of time worshipping God.” I told her.

I’ll never forget the disappointed look on Larissa’s face at this. I have to confess, even I was bored by my answer.

“Just, like singing?” She replied, with malignant incredulity.

“Probably more than singing.” I said. This stuff was clearly out of my depth. I had no idea what anyone did or didn’t do in heaven. I wasn’t even sure that the Bible said much of anything about the activities of the afterlife.

“Nothing else?” She reiterated. “Just singing?” I distinctly remember looking at my watch at this point. It was reflexive. I think this is how I used to communicate that I need to cut this conversation short. But I guess Larissa hadn’t learned these adult cues because she stood there like she expected an answer.

“Well … maybe dancing?” I said this more like a question since we weren’t a flag-waving, dancing kind of church. I wasn’t sure if our pastor would accuse me of conjuring up images of steamy barroom dancefloor, though I doubted this is what an eight-year-old thought of dancing.

“Just singing and dancing? All day, every day?” Larissa said. And I could see the “well that’s dumb,” look on her face. I think I just discouraged an innocent little girl from ever wanting to go to heaven.

I figured I better not dig myself any further into the hole I was in, so I shrugged, and we went on up to the Sunday service.

It was afterwards, there in the fellowship hall, when I had my aneurism. The fact that the events of my life have all but faded from view except for this one day, is probably a due to that conversation with Larissa. It’s like doing a side-by-side taste test, nothing brings out the contrasts of two things like setting them next to each other. Larissa Gardner’s question about heaven on the day I died set that moment in stone.

I didn’t experience any tunnel, no white light shining at the end of a corridor. I was just standing over myself, crumpled onto the ground in front of the donut table. I literally died eating a donut, which I suppose isn’t such a bad way to go.

I can only guess that there was a good bit of chaos swirling about my discarded earth-suit, lying there on the green and white tile floor, but I don’t recall. What I do remember is that there was a person standing next to me who took me by the arm. Either I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman or I didn’t care, we just walked up the stairs and out the front door. I said to them, “This is so very interesting,” and I could see them smiling at this, like I was under the influence of some anesthetic and didn’t know what I was saying.

The person led me from the church toward the old growth forest that was just across the street, all the while I kept repeating things like, “This is so interesting. So terribly fascinating.” As we stepped inside the wood I could hear a siren in the distance, but by now I was too interested in what was ahead to look back. I didn’t even care what was happening back at the church. It wasn’t that I was disengaged or oblivious to what was going on around me. I was hyper engaged. Everything was so much more alive and real. It occurred to me then that I wasn’t falling into a stupor; I was coming out of one.