An audacious, imprecise, and presumptive story

By John Pearring

https://bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/112021.cfm
I Maccabees 6:1-13
Luke 20:27-40

They can no longer die,
for they are like angels;
and they are the children of God
because they are the ones who will rise. 

We, believers, rely on the hope from this lovely angelic verse, especially in our old age. Most especially when we attend a fallen brother or sister's funeral. 

The kindest words a person can hear about a friend who has died? "He willingly, with eager hope and the foresight of time to do it, prepared in prayer for his death." 

That was said about Jim Minzey this past Tuesday.

Jim began his membership in our treasured body of friends about five years ago. He came to us just a few weeks after his wife had died. You might remember. Bill invited him. Jim heard a reflection story about heaven that day. I didn't know Jim was coming. I didn't know him at all. 

That reflection was a simple, heartfelt tale I wrote about Sierra, who painfully missed her husband, Vernon He had died abruptly. His was a tragic death, and her's a sorrowful anger. Vernon waited daily in heaven for his beloved wife to join him. She continued to live a long, sad life. Vernon warned Jesus that Sierra was not happy with God for taking her husband from her. Jesus assured Vernon that Sierra would be convinced of God's love for her. Jesus said he would embrace her, and all would be well. (story can be found here.)

The recently widowed Jim said the story was no coincidence. "You wrote that for me," he said. He regularly joined us. Until COVID, that is. Zoom was not his cup of tea. "When are we getting back together?" he asked — or demanded — just a few months ago. He pleaded with me a dozen times over the years to tell another story when my turn came. I did so as often as I could.

So, here's another story for Jim. I pray he'll hear it when he's finished his orientation and initiation into heaven. Who knows how long those things take? We don't have any idea, really. 

That'll make a good story, I think. This, then, is the audacious, imprecise, and presumptive story of Jim Minzey's early moments in heaven's midst. If my imaginings aren't true, I'll be all ears when I get there and hear Jim explain how much I didn't know.

Stepping into heaven 

Jim woke up and blinked his eyes to clear the murkiness in front of him. He'd been dreaming, the most extended dream he could remember. He stretched his arms above his head, a natural reflex to draw up a yawn, but there was no need. He awakened already sitting, or kneeling, rather. His brain felt sharp, his body ready and newly supple. Best of all? No pain. 

Jim was very much awake. The world around him, though, no matter which way he turned, was a shapeless blur. His eyes couldn't focus. He didn't dare try to stand. He rubbed from lashes to lids, wiping away what must be covering his face. No change. A haze, neither bleary nor milky, just a dulled, indefinite mush blocked his eyesight. Jim couldn't see his hands. This was a strange blindness. 

He could feel the air around him. It smelled like forest, and then the beach. He wasn't sure. 

A foggy mist enveloped his body. He tasted the flowing, moist, almost cloudy air, expecting a vapor, like autumn morning weather. Condensation on his tongue confirmed he must be in a deep, thick fog. Exceptionally thick, he thought. As he struggled to identify his environs, the cloudy mist moved, brushing lightly against his skin. 

The ground didn't hurt his knees, which surprised him. He hadn't sat on his heels in years. The floor or land, or whatever was beneath him, held onto him, more than him sitting upon it. A gentle grip at his prone legs supported Jim in a soft, spongy, but still firm surface. It was warm. 

Jim realized he was no longer in or on a bed. That's for sure. Best of all, his breathing had improved, and his head pains, sharp stings mixed with unbearable pressure, were gone. He had surely survived the COVID. 

Maybe he was in a shower, Jim thought, getting cleaned up from his bedridden ordeal. He'd been lying down for a long time, daily slipping into an increasing dreamy state. Jim felt at his clothing. Overalls, not a hospital gown. They were not wet, even in this mist. Plus, they felt new. The familiarity of his favorite clothing amused him.

"Nice," he said out loud. He heard his voice! The tube in his throat was gone.

"Well, the old vocal cords are working again." He crossed his arms to think for a minute in this blurry fog of blindness. His arms rested on a different body. His belly was gone. He didn't remember ever not having a belly. He'd lost a lot of weight in a very short time. 

Jim's body tingled at his touch. He ran his hands across his shoulders. The moist air wasn't making him wet, but he could taste it and even swallow. A savory meal, almost, in every lick at the air. Weird.

Remaining on his knees, Jim reached down with his hands to get the lay of the land. To his left, the ground heated up as he crawled a few feet. He gripped something akin to dirt, pliable and mushy. Pushing his hands into it, the thick compost — or whatever it was — filled up to his wrist. He pulled his hands back, but nothing stuck to his fingers. Turning to his right, the surface felt much more firm but did not get hotter as he reached out. No weird sponginess, either. Jim scooted that way, staying on his knees.

Jim heard noises rise up behind him when he left the spongy, heated ground. Voices, rumbling sounds, and maybe some crying. 

"Oh, Jesus," he said, turning back to the noises. His heart began beating faster. Then, a wind lightly blew toward him from the other direction, the one with the firmer ground. Jim turned and leaned into the blowing wind. 

"… Jimmy …" he heard. He squinted both his eyes and ears at the call, which was really just a whisper. "Who's there?" Maybe he imagined it.

The blur cleared up as he stared into the wind, and a remote spot of light appeared. He put his arm up, trying to see around the light. Nothing perceptible. He couldn't make out the ground from the space above it. He moved forward, still crawling because he remained unsure about his balance. He really couldn't see anything. 

The light and the wind increased as he inched forwards. The misty air washed over him in waves. Each wave of wind hurt more. He seemed OK to handle the building blasts of air as he crawled. They were similar to an oncoming sandstorm. He sensed that part of his skin, in very thin layers, though, was shedding off.

"For crying out loud," he shouted. "What the heck is that?"

The storm turned into a needling, confusing, and challenging pain. He quickly turned back the other way. The wind stopped immediately. 

He took several deep breaths and decided to try the way toward the many voices. He stared into the dark space away from the light. Crying noises started up again, and they increased. Words started to form in the racket. They got louder. He couldn't quite make out what was being said. And now very familiar smells. Something was cooking. 

"Barbecue?" Jim said. He sniffed. "Pork. That smells like ribs!" 

"Help me!" someone shouted, crystal clear. Then another. "Come this way!" 

Jim, cautiously, reached one arm forward. He placed his palm into the surface, and the ground began to grab his arm. "Woah," Jim yelled and pulled his arm back. Many voices chimed in together. They were gravelly, hoarse, and angry. 

"Good Lord," Jim said. "What the dickens is going on?" 

He turned back toward the way into the light. 

"Light! Of course! The light!" Jim said. 

He crawled steadily, and the wind came again, harder each time. It hurt, skin almost ripping off, like sand blowing. But the moments between each wave of sharp, biting wind were lovely. He couldn't feel any difference in his body. And, the light was getting brighter. 

He kept going, fighting through the stings and resting in the calm each time the flailing wind abated. He was not sure how long or how far he traveled. Then, without any warning, Jim fell through the wind in the next push, landing into another place. The area lit up before him. It was still foggy but brighter. 

Jim stood up. He could make out the ground, plus a landscape formed in the space. The fog was melting away. 

Jim was barefoot, and he could see his feet now. His overalls were a very nice light blue. 

"Goodness gracious," he said. 

He wiggled his feet, his knees, and then his whole body — feeling tingly all over. He laughed out loud. 

"Jim."

Someone called his name, and he smiled. "Yes?" he asked.

He looked, and before him were some shadows, moving around. He took a deep breath, leaned forward, and took one step after another. He held his arms out in front as he walked, reaching for what might be there.

A hand took his.

"Welcome home, Jim." 

They can no longer die,
for they are like angels;
and they are the children of God
because they are the ones who will rise.