Sinners are told to make reservations, be packed up, and ready to hop on the slipper-slide ride down to hell. Upon their demise.
I don’t know about my sisters and brothers, but I can’t follow directions to the nearest convenience store – much less some fictional flame pit that laps at our souls.
However, upon contemplating it – it might not be a terrible alternative lodging. If as all the bigots espouse, they are going to fill the rafters of heaven – it’s probably already over-populated. A little ‘no vacancy’ sign would light up as I neared the outskirts of the celestial heavens.
And if it didn’t? Well, I’d rather reject my invitation. I don’t even like a chat with an intolerant crowd. Gives me a headache. And a heartache. So why would I waste eternity when my ears hurt from the hatred spewed?
Maybe hatred is synonymous with hell.
So I’m planning on going to hell, like the haters promise that I, and my ilk, will indeed be located, post-life. And the haters have done their job in prepping us for hell with their blistering bullying and their searing words.
Since my body isn’t bikini perfect, maybe I should just pack a t-shirt and cargo shorts for the soul vacation’s sweltering. A mug of iced-tea and a six-pack of cool brews would be nice, too. And if it got too hot, I’d like a fellow traveler to stand beside me, so we could shade one another.
Could be that’s it! Maybe shade, and warmth are the answers to what happens here on this glorious planet we share. If we shade one another, and if we warm one another, perhaps there is hope.
A poem I revere is titled “Birches” by Robert Frost. I’m going to borrow a few of his exquisite lines: I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
Much of the Holy Bible is poetry, and much poetry is my personal Bible.
I’m resigned to being the person a loving creator plunked down here. So, I’ve got my marching orders when final directives approach. Grab my gardener’s hat to shield my eyes from the fire’s glow; a nice pair of sandals to give some protection against the lava’s spit and spume; and an ice tray. Okay, I’m an optimist.
I’m uncertain if I belong in hell because someone says all my sisters and brothers and I should be there. And even if I planned on, per instruction from the haters, going to hell – I probably couldn’t find the damned place. I’ve been known to read maps upside down.
Hope I always remember what the elderly, white-haired prophet said about earth being the right place for love. Love I can easily locate.