BEYOND HEAVEN AND EARTH
A novel about love, and death…and life
Steven H Propp
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Lincoln Shanghai
Beyond Heaven and Earth
A novel about love, and death…and life
All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Steven H. Propp
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
iUniverse, Inc.
For information address:
iUniverse, Inc.
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www.iuniverse.com
ISBN: 0-595-30269-6
ISBN: 978-1-4697-5277-8 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PART I
THE PRE-EXISTENCE
PRELUDE
1
DE PROFUNDIS*
PART II
THE QUEST BEGINS
2
PASTORAL COUNSEL
3
FORTY DAYS IN THE WILDERNESS
4
I BELIEVE IN THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY, AND THE LIFE EVERLASTING*
5
A FAMILY AFFAIR
6
“GO YE THEREFORE”
PART III
THE GOING FORTH
7
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS WITHIN YOU
8
MERCY ON WHOM HE WILL HAVE MERCY
9
WAS SHE SAVED?
10
“YE ARE MY WITNESSES” (Isaiah 43:10)
11
THE ONE TRUE CHURCH
12
KINDRED SPIRITS
13
“WHO WILL HAVE ALL MEN TO BE SAVED” (1 Timothy 2:4)
14
PEOPLE OF DIFFERENT BOOKS
15
THOU ART THAT
16
THE WAY OF LIVING AND DYING
17
THE PURE LAND
18
THE ASCENDED MASTERS
19
THE NEW MILLENNIUM
20
THE CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS WITHIN US ALL
21
MANIFESTATION
22
TOWARD THE LIGHT
23
STUDYING THE PHENOMENA
24
WHEN IN DOUBT
25
RESTLESS SPIRITS
26
MESSAGE FROM BEYOND
27
PASCAL’S NEW WAGER
PART IV
IN THE WORLD, BUT NOT OF…
28
A LOGICAL ENDING
29
THE CONFESSIONS OF ABRAHAM
30
BEFORE THE THRONE
31
JOY TO THE WORLD
32
OUT WITH THE BATHWATER
33
STUBBORN TO THE END
34
A GOOD DEATH?
35
BABY KILLERS
36
TRULY FREE
37
THE TRANSITION
38
’TIL DEATH DO US PART
39
DIARY OF AN ARTIST ASSASSIN
40
APOCALYPSE/THE LAST THINGS
PART V
WHAT LIES BEYOND?
—A—
THE OTHER SIDE
—B—
RETROSPECTION AND INTROSPECTION
—C—
REUNION
EPILOGUE
BIBLIOGRAPHY
To Dorothy S. Propp (1925-2003)
The most loving, supportive, and dedicated Mom imaginable.
To George Smiley Sullivan (1923-1944)
The uncle I never met; a pilot killed in World War II
And to Nancy, the light and love of my life,
And my “soul mate” forever.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With love and gratitude for the support of:
My brother-in-law (and fellow Kings & 49er fan) Darrel Buzynski;
My wonderful, loving Big Sister, Susan Buzynski;
My niece Jennifer (still a techie whiz);
My “favorite” nephew Jason (no matter where he goes);
My uncles Ken Griffin and Wally Lynn;
My aunts Patty Lynn and Gloria Bennett;
All the cousins, in-laws, and family;
All of Nancy’s fantastic, unique, and multicultural family;
But especially to my best buddy Devonte, and my little partner Joseph,
Who have their whole lives to look forward to.
My warmest personal thanks, for reviewing early drafts of chapters 17 & 10 are owed to:
The Reverend Robert Oshita, Rinban of the Buddhist Church of Sacramento, for his kind, gracious, and helpful comments (as well as letting me know that Dr. Unno was in town!).
The Christian Congregation of Jehovah’s Witnesses (Patterson, New York).
Needless to say, any remaining errors of fact, emphasis, taste or tone in my presentation of their doctrines are wholly my responsibility, and much regretted.
PART I
THE PRE-EXISTENCE
PRELUDE
She was asleep.
As gently as I could, I carefully let go of her fingers, being cautious not to disturb the intravenous tube running into her right vein. I flexed my stiff fingers, and settled back in my chair, as quietly as possible. Sleep now, my wife; my love, I thought. That’s the best thing for you, right now. You just need to let your body rest, and get your strength back. And you’ll need all your strength, because you’ve got our baby living inside you, now. But you’re not here alone, sweetheart; I’m right here beside you, and I’ll never leave you.
It was quiet in the hallway outside Sophia’s room; the commotion and traffic in the hallway of a busy hospital had finally slowed down after dinner, when many of the people visiting family members had left. That’s good, it will be easier for her to sleep; that’s all she needs, is sleep. My poor sweetheart, she’s been so worried ever since she found out she was pregnant, in spite of all my reassurances that I’d take care of everything.
Sophia’s night-shift nurse had just finished checking up on her about ten minutes ago, and had replaced her IV drip bag. Apart from an occasional nurse or attendant quietly walking past the doorway, even the hospital itself seemed to be asleep: far less busy than when they brought Sophia up from the Admitting Room, ten hours ago. The only sounds were those coming from the machinery monitoring her vitals that stood behind and around Sophia’s bed. The glowing monitors dispassionately measured her respiration, her blood pressure, her other vital signs, electronically displaying their results in glowing numbers or graphics.
Amazing how they think they can reduce a person’s life to a simple monitoring of certain factors: heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing.
I glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:42; only a few more minutes, and visiting hours would be over for
today. Sophia’s parents and siblings had left an hour ago, promising to return in the morning, if she was still here.
One thing about waiting in a hospital room, it gives you an unlimited amount of time to think. Much more time than you would ever have wanted, actually. I’d never been in a hospital for this long before. My parents died suddenly in an automobile crash while I was in college, and I’d never known anyone really close who had an extended illness, so I’d never sat in a hospital chair for more than an hour or so while I was visiting a relative or a friend—so I consequently had never thought much about them. But when you’ve been sitting in one for almost 10 hours, you decide that they are intended to make you uncomfortable, and discourage long visiting. If only they would let me stay overnight with her; but “It’s hospital policy for visitors to leave by 9 PM every day. But don’t worry—we’ll call you immediately if there’s any change in her condition. And you can call us to check on her status, 24 hours a day.”
Well, I’d feel better about leaving if you knew why we were here; why Sophia suddenly became so dizzy this morning that she nearly fainted. What the hell kind of hospital is this, anyway? All this technology, and they still don’t know what’s wrong with her. “With newly pregnant women, there are all sorts of things that can make them dizzy, or lightheaded,” the female doctor said, when they were admitting her into the hospital from the Admitting Room, where I’d rushed her after she almost passed out this morning after breakfast. But she’s only four months pregnant, I said. “Doesn’t matter,” she replied, smugly. “We’ll know more after we run some tests; we’ll have the results by tomorrow.”
Sophia stirred for a moment. I sat up immediately, and gently placed my hand over hers, scarcely daring to breathe. But she didn’t wake up, so I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and sat back again.
I remember being sick when I was young, and my mother trying to comfort me by soothingly saying, “I just wish I could take this for you, honey.” But I never really knew how she must have felt until I met Sophia. I looked lovingly at her face. It was so pale—so unlike her normal, lovely Latina complexion. Her long black hair was tied in a tight ponytail behind her head, almost out of sight. But to me she was the same beautiful, wonderful woman that I’ve loved for four years. If only I could bear the tiredness and pain for her. Why can’t men share the pain and discomfort of pregnancy with their partners? And she still has five months to go…But in the end, the pain is hers alone. And people say it’s all because Eve convinced Adam to eat an apple; what bull. But at least I can stay by her side; I can wipe her feverish brow again and again with a cool cloth, I can hold her hand and murmur sweet tokens of my love into her ear, which she probably doesn’t hear, but who knows?
We’ll get through this, honey, and through anything else that comes along. Our lives together are just beginning; nothing will ever stand in our way, or keep us apart.
I thought back, smiling. We met in our junior year in college, when we had several Teachers’ Ed classes together. Sophia wanted to teach elementary school kids (first- or second-grade, probably), whereas I was aiming more toward High School kids—but everyone in the credential program had to take pretty much the same classes our first year, so we had several classes together. She was brilliant in class, and became noted among her peers for catching our professors when they were going too far beyond the course curriculum, and began getting too “indoctrinating” about their own personal philosophies of education. “Aren’t you supposed to just be introducing us to a variety of educational philosophies and psychological approaches, and let us choose for ourselves?” She was also bilingual, and spoke both Spanish and English fluently, for which I envied her; knowing how to speak a foreign language—especially Spanish—was a big “plus” for a teacher trying to get a job in California these days.
Although I knew her name from our shared classes together, I’d never said anything other than “Hi, how’s it going?” to her, until we were put into a four-person work group for a 6-week special project for one of our classes. The project required us to work in pairs to do the research; the other two on our team were long-time friends, so Sophia and I made up the other team, and I had the chance to get acquainted with her. To me (who hadn’t even been on a date since the summer after high school), she was absolutely gorgeous: beautiful long black hair, wavy and full just like the models on TV. She always had her makeup on, even at our earliest class, so your attention was always immediately drawn to her flashing dark eyes, and her full lips, usually painted a matte shade of red or pink. (Listening to her talk during our group meetings, I felt like I could just gaze into those beautiful eyes of hers forever.)
Sophia and I agreed to meet for coffee one day to discuss our research assignment, and then we went to the university library together to study. After completing the day’s research, it was only natural to go to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Soon, we began having lunch together three days a week after our shared
11:00 class, sitting out on the grass in front of the Student Union, eating sandwiches, chips and cokes bought from the vending machines. Once while we were sitting and eating, it unexpectedly started to rain; and as I didn’t have an umbrella, she let me share hers. I offered to hold it, taking it from her beautifully manicured fingers, our hands brushing lightly in the process. Being this close to her, I could smell her perfume, which made my senses quicken and my heartbeat increase. Standing under the umbrella in the rain together felt very natural, and intimate. For the first time, we talked about things other than our classes, and how our student teaching assignments were going; we talked about our backgrounds, our goals, and our dreams. Sophia had such a quick mind and a fast sense of humor, that I think she was pleasantly surprised to see that—although I was much shyer than she, and hardly ever spoke up in class unless called upon— I had an equally quick mind and sense of humor, although mine tended to express itself more in writing, than verbally.
We made arrangements to meet for dinner at a fast-food restaurant after classes were over. We found out that we had the same favorite authors: Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Gabriel García Márquez, and Toni Morrison. We discovered that we had shared tastes in music: Carlos Santana (we were both delighted by Santana’s comeback album Supernatural), Torcuato Mariano, and Craig Chaquico. She loved older music, and over the next few weeks, she loaned me CDs and made me tapes of Latin bands from the 70s that I’d never heard of, like Malo and Azteca; but she also introduced me to more recent music, such as Selena, and Miami Freestyle dance music. In turn, I introduced her to mellow jazz like Pat Metheny, Michael Franks, and Tuck & Patti, as well as more recent electronica artists such as the Propellerheads and Moby, as well as crossover acts like Candiria.
It’s funny, but we never really went through a regular period of “dating”; we just saw each other at school every chance we had, talked on the phone every day, and shared whatever activities we could afford. Both of us were only working part-time while going to school (she lived at home, while I lived with my sister), so we didn’t have a lot of money to spare. But just going to a free movie at the Student Union, or taking a few sandwiches to the park on a combination picnic/study day on Sunday afternoons were incredibly “special” occasions to me, just because she was there.
Still, even though we’d been close friends for several months, I was deathly afraid that she thought of me as just being “a good friend who happens to be a guy,” until one day while we were sitting next to each other on the grass beneath a tree, I got up the courage to hold her hand as we sat, and we soon ended up kiss-ing—and it was clear that we both wanted to be more than just “good friends.” She made it clear from the start, however, that she was “a good Catholic,” and wasn’t going to allow anything beyond kissing and hugging until after she was married, so I had no choice but to acquiesce. I’d never really thought about getting married, as the whole ritual seemed kind of philosophically outdated to me, when I thought about it in the abst
ract sense—but now when I thought of it as meaning marriage and a lifetime partnership with Sophia, it suddenly sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world. So I could afford to wait; Sophia was definitely a woman worth waiting for.
I never really thought too much about the fact that Sophia was Mexican (her parents moved to the States when she was three), and I was an out-and-out Anglo, complete with light brown hair and blue-green eyes. To me, her skin seemed just the perfect color: light brown, like coffee with lots of cream in it. We used to laughingly hold our arms next to each other (“You call yourself ‘white’?” she would laugh. “Pink is more like it!”), and I would feel almost jealous. She had such a natural manner and easygoing personality, it seemed like she could fit in with almost any ethnic group: Latino, Black, Asian, Middle Eastern, or Anglo. Although she spoke perfect English, when she wanted to she could speak Spanish street slang as well as any of the Esés and Vatos on the block she grew up on. On the other hand, my parents were an amalgam of English, Irish, Scotch, German, Italian and even Russian backgrounds—with no discernible cultural influence from any of them—so when she asked me what nationality I was, I laughingly told her, “I have no ethnic background; I’m just a generic white guy—a mongrel.” She teased me that she had “picked me out because she felt sorry for the shy little Anglo boy in the back of the room.”
Sophia met my older sister Sandra soon after we became close; my sister immediately liked Sophia, and vice versa (except that Sophia was a bit taken aback by my sister’s frequent use of profanity). Eventually, however, the time came when I had to meet Sophia’s parents, so she invited me for a Sunday family dinner. Neither of her parents seemed to be very pleased with me, especially her father. Although he was always polite with me, I sometimes had the impression that he didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Central American, South American, Spanish, or anything else remotely related. (And unfortunately, I couldn’t even speak Spanish at an elementary level; I took French when I was in high school!)
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