Hotline To Heaven

They say being close to death gives non-believers religion, and as one who’s in that category, I can attest it does bring the subject of an afterlife to mind more often. The more I think about it, though, the idea of Heaven, the conventional one at least, seems no less ridiculous.

Still, who am I to say whether Heaven, or, God forbid, Hell exist? If they do and the fire and brimstone crowd are right, I’m in deep, deep doo-doo. I definitely don’t accept Jesus as my savior, (I mean, he could be a distant relative and if you knew my family………well, that’s another story) so if that’s a requirement for going to the “good place,” obviously I’m screwed.

Let’s assume somehow I slip past St. Pete though–maybe wear a crucifix and a MAGA hat–and make it through the Pearly Gates.

Great.

As long as they don’t have phone service up there.

You see, as I attempt to write this blog, my computer phobic sweetheart is trying to balance the checkbook on-line across the table from me. Why does it seem like I’m the one doing it? First question, how to log on. Next “what’s this credit” (the distribution from our financial account that has posted on the first of the month forever)? And so on and so on.

If anything requires pushing a button, my otherwise very smart spouse feels the need to consult with her soon to be terminated personal IT staff. What’s she going to do when I’ve gone to that big unemployment agency in the sky?

The other day, I caught her, uncharacteristically, at prayer and overheard her imploring the Almighty to instal a hotline between our condo and my digs in the clouds. That way, when she has a tech question, like about two hundred times a day, she could get the help she needs.

If history is any guide, that supplication will be deposited in the circular filing cabinet that all thoughts and prayers wind up in. But on the off chance He’s paying attention, much as I love the sound of her voice, I hope the Big Guy turns her down.

I can see it now. One of the 49 virgins assigned to me is about to plop a peeled grape into my mouth when—riiiiiing–and on the other end is that beloved voice and its familiar refrain, “Hey Norm, I have a question. How do I turn on the TV?”

Of course, ultimately this lovely lady will snare a computer literate fellow who will relieve me of my duties. But that makes the idea of Heaven even more of a conundrum.

This morning when she told me, as she tends to do, “You’re my favorite husband (of course I am, I’m the only one she’s ever had), I replied, as I tend to do lately, “So far.”

Suppose she meets Mr. Right and realizes he’s actually her fave? What happens when she and her new honey get aboard the soul train and the three of us are stuck in the great beyond in a love triangle for eternity? Jesus surely would not allow for a menage-a-trois. So who has first dibs? And if hubby number one does, but hubby number two is the favorite, is there any legal recourse up there to resolve the dispute?

Dispute? Hey. I thought Heaven was all peace and kumbaya. No disputes for sure. My whole rejection of the concept of Heaven is based on the fact that a place devoid of challenges and difficulties to be overcome would be so boring, that, aside from climate issues, Hell would be a better way to spend eternity. Well, if there are legal challenges, who knows what other challenges may exist there as well ? If that’s the case that idea of eternal boredom flies out the window, doesn’t it?

This doesn’t even address the possibility that hubby number two had a wife number one, or even several more during his stay in this vale of tears. The heavenly courts must have a very full docket and, given the legal profession’s nasty reputation, a shortage of lawyers. And here you thought the Trump cases were complicated and went nowhere forever.

Well, one good thing about such a state of affairs is that, contrary to my original contention, maybe Heaven isn’t as boring as I thought it was. If that’s the case, hot diggity dog!

Swing low sweet chariot after all. I’ll be a’climbin’ right in.