Call 773-_ _ _ - _ _ _ _ ."
That's what the back of the van said, in the spot where it usually reads "How's my driving?" The side of the van listed the kinds of work offered—something related to lawn care. I didn't pay much attention because I was looking to see if the Heaven/Hell number was the same as the company's number. It wasn't.
I wondered who answered the phone and how long it would take to hear a forecast of my future.
It reminds me of the summer when I was about 12 and acquiesced to spending the day with a girl I hardly knew.
"She wants you to go to camp with her, that's all. It'll be fun!" assured my mother.
Since mothers never lie, off to camp I went. But as soon as I got there, I knew it wasn't the camp I'd expected. It was Bible camp.
By the age of 12, I already had serious doubts about my religion; other religions, too, for that matter. I wanted PROOF about Noah's ark, Jesus's lineage, and Adam's rib.
So when the preacher looked out over the chapel filled with children and asked, "Who would like to meet Jesus?" I raised my hand high. Who wouldn't want to meet Jesus?
Apparently, every other kid but me. I was ushered away from everyone's view out into a dark hallway and put in the care of the church janitor. While "camp" continued in the chapel, the janitor and I continued standing where we'd been placed in the dark hallway.
For a moment, I thought it was a test of my biases, a test I could ace. It didn't surprise me that the Lord of Hosts would surface in the 20th century as a janitor.
It did surprise me, however, to discover that this janitor not only wasn't Jesus, but didn't even know Jesus. Hadn't even MET him.
I'd been boondoggled.
Fastforward into the 21st century, where I'm not so quick to take the bait. Will I be going to Heaven or Hell?
Only the janitor knows for sure.
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