Heaven or Hell

When I was a child going to Catholic grade school in Chicago, I knew with certainty that I’d be headed for what we called "the bad place" as soon as I died. My sins were legion and unspeakable.

Now, I’m not so sure.

First, I’m not sure there’s a heaven that’s anything like the one I learned about from the nuns at Our Lady of Peace School. There’s not a place where I’d be given a seat on some cloud and a little harp and told to enjoy myself for eternity. Obviously enough, if there's no heaven with little harps then there's no hell with pitchforks.

That’s a relief.

The Catholic Church taught that as soon as I died I would go through "particular judgment." As a sinner, I stood no chance. My body would be buried and my soul sent on to hell. Later, at the end time, my body would rise to be reunited with my soul for the "last judgment."

My fevered little mind developed the terrible belief that on judgment day I’d hop out of my grave and join a huge crowd gathered in a place akin to the world’s largest drive-in movie, only without cars. There, all the people who ever lived would be gathered, souls reunited with bodies, watching films. Each film would show all the good and bad ever done by one individual.

I hated the idea of my mother and father and friends knowing about all my sins. About all the nickels I filched from my mother’s purse. About my lies. What I really did when I was supposed to be taking a shower.

I’m glad I don’t believe that any more. That belief has been replaced by uncertainty. I just don’t know, any more than anybody else, what ultimately awaits.

I like to think, though, that no matter what heaven and hell are like, I’ve paid for my sins already. I’ve been a pretty decent guy for the last dozen years or so and I was never, not even at my worst, bad enough to be forced to spend eternity in hell.

I think maybe God really is a "higher power," some sort of beneficent, loving, tolerant force that put everything in motion and that when I die I’ll simply return to become part of that power.

That sounds good.

I have an old, tiny photograph taken when I was about four years old. In the photo, my father and I are walking down a beach, away the photographer, undoubtedly my mother. My dad and i are holding hands. I remember the bathing suit he used to wear. It was beige, decorated with green palm trees and orange flamingos. I remember the way he’d hold my hand, gentle in his big workingman’s hand. And I remember how safe and serene I felt in those moments.

I think that’s where I’ll be after I die. Not on that beach but in that feeling.

I hope so.

I heard somebody I met in the sober fellowship I'm in say that when he died he hoped he "would go to that big meeting in the sky."

Not me. I'll pass on that. I’d rather go to that big package store in the sky.

If not that, walking on the beach with my old man will suffice.