No, my heaven will be all nature, the Garden of Eden, and the apples will be tart, not sweet. And when I get there I will meet the people I actually loved on earth minus the ones I was supposed to love but didn't. Oh, yes, there are a few of those. They will be consigned to a different section of heaven--one for the hopelessly narrow minded and tight-assed. This section will be labeled Poverty of Mind and Spirit, and it will be crowded. The inmates will be suspicious of each other.
My section will be laid back. We will be glad that we made it to heaven because, to tell the truth, we many times suspected that we wouldn't. The tight asses will have made sure we knew our sins were being recorded. We will frolic in the Garden, enjoying the company of all the animals, fishes, birds, and critters that are there. We believe that these creatures have souls and that they all go to heaven. This section of heaven will be labeled Richness of Mind and Soul. I will feel smug to be there.
I became a Christian when I was eleven years old during a revival. If you don't know what a revival is, I both pity and envy you. A revival is intense. Lots of preaching in lots of meetings. You get a double or triple load of the teachings of the church. My church baptized by immersion. The preacher dunks the candidate for church membership under water. I was baptized in a cow tank. A new one, not a used one, and it was inside the church, not out in the pasture.
I was a really good girl for a few weeks after that, assuming that Jesus had to approve of everything I did and said. I even gave up swearing. My daddy was a man who had raised the art of profanity to an art form, and I tended to follow his example. So the devil finally found me and I reverted to cussing. Something about it just seemed to resonate with me. I don't remember how I squared that with Jesus, but I must have found a way.
Anyway, it's been a long, crooked road on my way to heaven. I plan to be cremated when I die. I will reside forever in a niche at Stonewall Memory Gardens in Virginia, where people bring plastic flowers to their loved ones' graves and niches because the deer in the forest behind it eat any real flowers that are left.
Heaven will be much dearer to me than I could have anticipated before I had to live in the hellish realm of Donald Trump.
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