WHEN I AM COMPLETELY DEAD...
MY HOPE IS THAT a modest monument, perhaps with a small white cross, will be erected somewhere in my memory, possibly near my Mother and Father at the Fairmont Cemetery in Denver, Colorado. It should be incised with my name and dates of birth and death. Underneath the name and dates, my plan is to have a mysterious avant-garde poem inscribed, one I will pen myself, which will read: "His face was craggy stone where lips repose like two languid lovers in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke..." and go on from there, depending upon how much room there is for more. My desire, of course, is that these words will give inspiration to those to those who linger long enough to read them, and that they will be smitten enough to say: "What an effective piece of writing. The man must have had the soul of a lyricist and the heart of a Saint," rather than have someone utter: "What kind of brainless dimwit would write something that absurd?"
As far as a belief or lack of belief in a Life Everlasting, it has always been my wish to have had a long and happy life, no matter what became of me afterwards. I would not have set out to have the life I've had on purpose, without giving thought to the choices I've made, ones I attribute to the delight I derived from shirking responsibility, frittering away my time watching TV, and reading Louie L'Amour novels; and because I now know that life itself is not going to be the round trip I had once hoped it would be, it may be too late to even begin to think about attempting a do-over; which causes me wonder how stumped the Lord Jesus must have been when He was informed that it was time for Him to check out. Other than being aware that it was not going to be a honey of a day after all, my bet would be that He may have wanted a do-over, too.
Which is why, when I do set foot in the Afterlife, it would be my hope that if there really is a Saint Peter, he will keep in mind that the message of Jesus was one of mercy and pity. Better yet, I would like it if he said that I wasn't really dead, that I was just having a near-death experience, and would soon be back among the living. My fear is that if I asked if that were true, his reply would be, "For God's sake, Man, get a grip!"
If I actually do have an IQ well above average when measured against the intelligence of the general American population like I hope I do, I am almost sure that I ought to have begun thinking about the possibility of my own death at the beginning of my life, if we are to thrive and do well, we should all do that. This is why I would also wish to discuss the topic of nurture versus nature with Saint Peter - whether that might not go along way toward explaining how I became who I am, and whomever that may have turned out to be, it wasn't all my fault. I have, after all, been a law-abiding citizen, tried to behave decently without any expectations of punishments or rewards after I'm dead, and was only clowning around when I said that I was thinking of committing treason against the United States of America, knowing full well that I could be wearing a hangman's noose for a necktie if I weren't just being a cut-up trying to get a laugh.
Although my life now seems to be a trail mix crushing defeats and broken dreams, soaked in the syrup of things left undone; I am more than distressed when it comes to considering the possibility of being stuck in Limbo, nor do I wish to enter into the bottomless pit of Hell, where I would be forced to mingle with weirdos like Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini, two men who obviously lacked mirth and wit and didn't seem all that well-bred. I doubt I would be happy in Hell hanging-out with either one of them, and can't even begin to imagine what what it would be like to try joking around with guys like that.
According to the books I've recently read, I have finally begun to comprehend that it must be a very rare and merry honor to be allowed through the Pearly Gates and be greeted with a New Orleans-style brass band with a rousing rendition of "When the Saints Come Marching In." Absolutely nothing could beat that. Yet, I wonder if a two-bit guy like me will make it through the Pearly Gates? Who knows? Which is why I believe that my best bet would be to stick around here for as long as I can and hope for the best.
MY HOPE IS THAT a modest monument, perhaps with a small white cross, will be erected somewhere in my memory, possibly near my Mother and Father at the Fairmont Cemetery in Denver, Colorado. It should be incised with my name and dates of birth and death. Underneath the name and dates, my plan is to have a mysterious avant-garde poem inscribed, one I will pen myself, which will read: "His face was craggy stone where lips repose like two languid lovers in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke..." and go on from there, depending upon how much room there is for more. My desire, of course, is that these words will give inspiration to those to those who linger long enough to read them, and that they will be smitten enough to say: "What an effective piece of writing. The man must have had the soul of a lyricist and the heart of a Saint," rather than have someone utter: "What kind of brainless dimwit would write something that absurd?"
As far as a belief or lack of belief in a Life Everlasting, it has always been my wish to have had a long and happy life, no matter what became of me afterwards. I would not have set out to have the life I've had on purpose, without giving thought to the choices I've made, ones I attribute to the delight I derived from shirking responsibility, frittering away my time watching TV, and reading Louie L'Amour novels; and because I now know that life itself is not going to be the round trip I had once hoped it would be, it may be too late to even begin to think about attempting a do-over; which causes me wonder how stumped the Lord Jesus must have been when He was informed that it was time for Him to check out. Other than being aware that it was not going to be a honey of a day after all, my bet would be that He may have wanted a do-over, too.
Which is why, when I do set foot in the Afterlife, it would be my hope that if there really is a Saint Peter, he will keep in mind that the message of Jesus was one of mercy and pity. Better yet, I would like it if he said that I wasn't really dead, that I was just having a near-death experience, and would soon be back among the living. My fear is that if I asked if that were true, his reply would be, "For God's sake, Man, get a grip!"
If I actually do have an IQ well above average when measured against the intelligence of the general American population like I hope I do, I am almost sure that I ought to have begun thinking about the possibility of my own death at the beginning of my life, if we are to thrive and do well, we should all do that. This is why I would also wish to discuss the topic of nurture versus nature with Saint Peter - whether that might not go along way toward explaining how I became who I am, and whomever that may have turned out to be, it wasn't all my fault. I have, after all, been a law-abiding citizen, tried to behave decently without any expectations of punishments or rewards after I'm dead, and was only clowning around when I said that I was thinking of committing treason against the United States of America, knowing full well that I could be wearing a hangman's noose for a necktie if I weren't just being a cut-up trying to get a laugh.
Although my life now seems to be a trail mix crushing defeats and broken dreams, soaked in the syrup of things left undone; I am more than distressed when it comes to considering the possibility of being stuck in Limbo, nor do I wish to enter into the bottomless pit of Hell, where I would be forced to mingle with weirdos like Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini, two men who obviously lacked mirth and wit and didn't seem all that well-bred. I doubt I would be happy in Hell hanging-out with either one of them, and can't even begin to imagine what what it would be like to try joking around with guys like that.
According to the books I've recently read, I have finally begun to comprehend that it must be a very rare and merry honor to be allowed through the Pearly Gates and be greeted with a New Orleans-style brass band with a rousing rendition of "When the Saints Come Marching In." Absolutely nothing could beat that. Yet, I wonder if a two-bit guy like me will make it through the Pearly Gates? Who knows? Which is why I believe that my best bet would be to stick around here for as long as I can and hope for the best.
