I Hear You Knocking but You Can’t Come In

The unknown has been a constant source of fear for me. My mind generates varying storylines involving “what if” tangents when I don’t have a clear vision of what’s going to happen. I lean towards pragmatic when dealing with the future by making informed decisions based on past data with the hope it results in happiness. And since Life requires swinging at all its pitches, even the curve balls thrown from time to time, I’m always looking to steal a sign from the first base coach to increase my chances for a hit.

But there are situations that can’t be prepared for by using the knowledge gained from those who’ve already experienced it. Death falls into this category. “What happens when we die?” is a speculative question asked by those who are alive that can only be answered by those who are deceased. And the dead aren’t talking.

That’s why I’m formulating a preemptive approach to kicking the bucket utilizing the limited information gathered from my time spent so far on our glorious planet. This is the rationale for the two explicit instructions I left to the executor of my estate regarding my funeral arrangements.

First, I am to be buried in modest business attire and comfortable shoes with the New World Translation of the Holy Scripture Bible in one hand and a Watchtower pamphlet in the other. This ensemble is a strategic move using other people’s prejudices to my advantage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to nudge redemption in my favor on the outside chance I’m standing at Hades’ threshold after I pass.

Because, if it’s not Heaven’s door that I’m knock, knock, knockin’ on, I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent admission to a neighborhood eternally consumed by fire and brimstone. I’d favor not residing in a community ruled by a satanic HOA requiring the successful rolling of a stone to the top of a hill before I can paint my house any color other than perdition red.

Successfully impersonating a Jehovah Witness might be my ticket out of Gehenna. Because when the Grim Reaper swings open the portal to Hell in response to my incessant rapping, he (or she, don’t want to risk insulting the Angel of Death by misgendering) will see my literature and assume the basis for my visit involves evangelical overtones. Instinctively, this will elicit the curt response of, “I’m not interested” followed by an unrestrained shutting of the door in my face. Just like what’s been executed thousands of times previously by inconvenienced homeowners throughout history.

This burial outfit buys me additional, precious time to avoid Beelzebub’s Welcome Wagon. Getting a delay, even for a few moments, is a last-ditch effort to prove my worthiness. Any spare minutes I get will be used for an appeal to a higher authority. Hopefully, my desire to dodge the Devil will garner a favor from the Man Above, who will appreciate the effort I put forth and then reward me with a Speed Pass to the Pearly Gates.

If I’m fortunate enough to end up in Heaven in the first place, then I’ll nonchalantly tuck the brochure in my back pocket and patiently await St. Peter’s roll call. Either way, wherever I end up, I will finally know what happens when you stand at Death’s door.

The second directive for my memorial is that my coffin has a split lid so it can be an open casket service. But there’s one precondition. While I’m lying in state, the lid over the lower portion of my body is raised while the upper section over my torso remains closed. This has no benefit for me in the afterlife. It’s solely for those who have gathered to say farewell. This configuration would catch everyone off-guard and instill some levity in an otherwise somber occasion.

I accept that the circumstances I went through after dying cannot be relayed the living. But maybe just viewing my legs will give those who knew me another reason to grin or chuckle. And isn’t replacing tears with smiles the gift a departed loved one can bless you with to make an uncertain future a little less daunting and little easier to deal with?