A Brush with the Almighty

THE BRILLIANT white lights could mean only one thing. Okay, two things. Either I was in heaven, in the place where people wait nervously for their performance review with God, or I was in the recovery room after one of those Elderly Man Procedures and the nurses were keeping their humorous thoughts to themselves, something that would have been impossible for me had our positions been reversed. (“Hang on, I’ve got another one. What’s the difference between a colonoscopy and a ... shh ... he’s waking up! Darn it!”)

The tanks of oxygen around the room were another indication that this wasn’t heaven, although at that altitude they might come in handy. (Do you breathe when you get to heaven? I know you have to stop breathing to even be considered.)

I hesitate to recount another medical procedure to readers who have grown weary of the chronicles of my continuing decay. But I bring this up mainly for eschatological reasons. (Coincidentally, one gets a colonoscopy for scatological reasons. But I digress.)

At my age, if you’re undergoing any procedure that involves general anesthesia, you must be prepared for the possibility of not waking up. You need to have your affairs in order—such as writing down your passwords for surviving loved ones, skipping ahead to the last episode of the TV show you’ve been streaming at the office, and gassing up the car one last time (surviving loved ones should really learn to do that for themselves)—and make your peace with God.

And what better time to meet the Lord than when both society and technology are telling me I should step aside. This year’s election left me emotionally exhausted, I failed again to receive the MacArthur genius grant (how many more letters does my mom have to write?!), and I’m aging out of some features on my cellphone. I only use Facetime by mistake, inadvertently triggering the hideous apparition of some sickly relative of advanced years. And I’m afraid to open Yelp! because it sounds like it could hurt me.

My humor has also become woefully outdated. When Texas passed open-carry gun laws for college campuses I felt the moment cried out for a Mae West reference: “Is that a pistol in your pocket ... oh, it is a pistol in your pocket?” Hahaha! But today’s young people have never heard of Mae West, and can only guess she must be Kim Kardashian’s cousin by marriage.

Jesus himself would have a hard time these days, since turning water into wine wouldn’t impress a bunch of millennials more partial to craft beer. (Actually, it didn’t work out that well the first time, as the gospel of John recounts: “Thanks for making the extra red wine, Lord, but we’re having fish!”)

ACCEPTING MY extraneousness to the modern world, I prepared to meet my Maker and say goodbye to family and all my earthly possessions. Because, as they say, you can’t take it with you. Although it turns out it’s because there’s no more storage space in heaven. There used to be, in the old days when the disciples started arriving. They had lived according to that lesser-known 11th commandment—“Thou shalt reduce, reuse, and recycle”—and showed up with just the shoes on their feet. (Some had dust on the soles, some did not, which raised questions about their timesheets.)

But second-century Christians were reluctant to leave behind the conveniences of modern life and started arriving with more and more possessions. So now there’s no room left, which is too bad. I really wanted to bring my new toaster oven.

I FIGURED THIS would be a good time to get to heaven, since Mother Teresa’s recent canonization meant there might be decorations and snacks left over from the party. She would have displayed her legendary humility, of course, maybe said a few words, then left, breathing a sigh of relief that people still don’t know about her secret Netflix account or that case of Diet Coke she kept under her modest bed.

Of course, I can’t compete with Mother Teresa when I reach those Pearly Gates—hers was a life of service, mine was spent trying to get good service, mainly on my cellphone. But I’m counting on my good credit score to get me through. (I’m bringing a note from my mortgage company.)