I passed Julia Child’s kitchen and breathed deeply. The
aromas were Heavenly. Julia still loves butter. I was in a
rambling mood on another golden day in paradise. As my
thoughts flitted, so did my presence. Heaven makes joyful
pursuits quite easy. If I envision a place or activity, I am
there, everything from white-water rafting to a romantic
tango in the moonlight. When I murmur, “Come dance with me,”
to Bobby Mac, we move in unison to the pulsing music, his
hand warm against my back. I savor the beat and Bobby Mac
and my filmy dress of sea green chiffon. Bobby Mac is
gorgeous in a white Guayabera shirt and black trousers,
quite a change from his usual cream polo and khaki shorts
when fishing from Serendipity or his blue work shirt and
Levi’s when out on an oil rig. As we say in Adelaide, he
cleans up real nice.
Do I sense bewilderment? Heaven? Julia Child’s kitchen? A
tango in the moonlight? Adelaide? Oh yes, all of that and
more. If we haven’t met before, I’ll introduce myself. I am
Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Bobby Mac
and I arrived in Heaven when our cabin cruiser, the faithful
Serendipity, sank during a storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac has
been my man ever since high school, when he was a darkly
handsome senior and I was a redheaded sophomore. We lived a
happy life, which has only been better since arriving in
Heaven.
Heaven is, I assure you, quite Heavenly. Everything good,
everything honorable, everything beautiful is here. Earth,
as we all know, is beset with sin and strife, which is why I
sometimes yearn to return.
Not that I wish to dabble in sin.
Heaven forbid. Instead, I like to lend a helping hand to
those in trouble. I remember well that I received boosts,
some surprising, some unaccountable, that got me past rough
patches in my life. That’s why, delightful as Heaven is, I
revel in returning to earth as a special emissary from the
Department of Good Intentions.
I’ve been honored to serve as an emissary three times.
However, eager as I was to serve once again, my steps
slowed.
Just around the curve of a golden-hued cloud, a small train
station nestled against a green hill. The station served as
the headquarters of the department under the kindly
direction of Wiggins, who had been a stationmaster on earth.
I sighed and stopped. I didn’t quite have the courage to
swing around the cloud and see the small red-brick station
with silver rails that ran into the sky.
I studied the intervening cloud, made glorious by
incandescent streaks of gold and rose. Have I ever described
the majestic puffs of cloud that delineate a change from one
destination to another? I’m not talking about cool, damp
particles of mist. Heaven’s clouds are silky soft, as
luxurious to touch as fluff from a cottonwood. I’ve always
loved cottonwoods, and they are everywhere in Oklahoma . . .
I reined in my thoughts. Cottonwoods were all well and good—
and I’m sure it is of interest to realize there is nothing
chilling and wet should you plunge into a glorious white
column—but there was a time and place for memories of
cottonwoods. I was pondering clouds to avoid an approach to
the department, even though Wiggins would welcome me warmly.
Wiggins has a smile as reassuring as the dancing flames in a
winter fireplace, but he is rather a stickler for following
rules. His emissaries have a list of strict dos and don’ts.
Truth to tell—and Heaven always expects truth—I’m not
awfully good at rules. Some might say I am a bit impetuous.
Oh, all right. I think fast, move fast, and sometimes I
leave rules in my dust.
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