Beyond Heaven and Earth

by Steven H. Propp

  “Life after death doesn’t necessarily mean Hell, or eternal torment,” Jobran said, quietly. “Lots of people believe in the possibility of Heaven. Wouldn’t you want that, to look forward to?”

  Paul thought for a moment, and said, “Frankly, no. Most people my age have seen more than enough of life—it’s like you’ve seen everything, and done everything, and everything else is just repetition.” He smiled weakly, and said, “True, I haven’t ever been a famous movie star, or a powerful politician, but I don’t think that even that would motivate me to want to live longer—not that I’m likely to achieve either of those, at this point.” Then, with a dogged weariness in his voice, he added, “The only question I have about death is, why does it take so long to die? What is the point of dragging it out like this? I’ve been lingering here in this broken-down hulk of a body for almost a year, for what purpose? Just to keep the morphine companies in business? What point is there when your ‘life’ consists of always being half-asleep from drugs, being fed by through a tube, and having to wear diapers like a baby?”

  “Suppose that your body were regenerated after death,” Jobran said. “So that you would no longer have to endure the pain that you endured in life? Would that make life a more attractive option? Many religions teach that we are given a new ‘spiritual’ body in the life after death, after all.”

  “That would be a better option, to be sure,” Paul said, some life coming back into his voice. “Most people have toyed with the idea of having a brand new body with your old mind in it. But I think we only like this idea because we have things we could have done better if only we ‘knew what we know now.’” He shook his head slowly, and said, “But which version of our mind would be the one that would survive for all of eternity? There really isn’t an unchanging single ‘self’ about us that would survive into eternity, because all of us are constantly changing throughout our lives. Would it be my youthful mind, filled with idealism? Or my more mature mind, governed by pragmatism? Or maybe my older, more bitter self?”

  “Suppose that, in an afterlife, you simply continued on from your present stage of consciousness?” Jobran asked.

  “God, that’s a frightening thought,” Paul said, with a weak laugh. “Given the increasingly cynical direction that my thoughts have taken over the past two decades, I hate to imagine what I might be like in another few decades, or what I would be like after an eternity.”

  “Maybe in an afterlife we would have the chance to improve ourselves; or perhaps be improved, by God.”

  Paul leaned back in his bed, and said, “If God wants to improve me after my death, that’s fine with me. For my own part, I’m too tired.”

  “Or what about the notion of reincarnation?” Jobran asked. “What if you could have more than one earthly life?” He shrugged his shoulders, then said, “People who believe in reincarnation say that we might be placed in a different social context, such as a different family, or different country; it’s supposed to increase your chances of progression, of learning what you’re supposed to learn.”

  Paul said, “Reincarnation has never made any sense to me. Since we supposedly forget all of our previous lives, how am I supposed to remember what ‘lessons’ I’m supposed to be here to learn in this life? How will I know what I’m supposed to ‘work on’? What would be the purpose in that, since I’d probably just screw things up the same old way—or maybe even make a worse mess of things.”

  Jobran shrugged, and said, “I guess if you don’t happen to figure out your purpose for this life, you just keep being reincarnated, again and again.”

  “Seems like a damned inefficient way of running things, to me,” Paul said, with a weak laugh.

  Jobran laughed too, and said, “You’ve got a good point.”

  Paul said quietly, “Reincarnation is not an attractive one to me. I can see how it might be an interesting concept for people that die when they’re just kids—like your wife—people who never really had a chance to life a complete life. But for people like me, I’ve had more than enough of life on this earth. What would be the purpose or point accomplished by coming back again? I’ve never seen why some of these New Agers seem to be so attracted by the idea of reincarnation.”

  Jobran said, “Some of it is probably because reincarnation allows people to reconcile the notion of the goodness of God with some of the injustices of this life. For example, you mentioned people that die when they’re just kids; is it ‘fair’ for a child to die that hasn’t really experienced all that life has to offer?”

  Paul nodded, and said, “The idea that young kids get another chance, makes sense to me.” He paused a moment, as if gathering his strength, and said, “I was raised Catholic, but it always seemed strange to me that baptized babies get to go to Heaven, whereas unbaptized ones go to Hell—although I guess that’s not exactly what they teach, any longer.”

  “Not exactly,” Jobran said. “The term ‘Limbo’ is hardly ever heard anymore, and the new Catechism says that we are allowed to hope that unbaptized babies might be saved.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” Paul said. “Whereas if you take the same kid and let it live until it gets old enough to sin, it has a good chance of ending up in Hell. In fact, since most people are not going to make it into Heaven, it almost seems like you’d be giving your kid a better chance of if you killed him right after baptizing him.”

  Jobran shook his head and with a rueful smile, said, “I don’t think the Vatican would agree with that interpretation.”

  Paul had closed his eyes again, but continued speaking, “But it also seems to me like it shouldn’t be fair for babies to make it into Heaven without having had to go through all the shit that we adults go through in life: They never had to go through puberty, or marriage, or being a parent, or struggling to pay bills, or having to work in a meaningless job all your life.” He made a gesture of throwing his hands up in the air, and said, “So I guess that being reincarnated, until they have gone through the whole process, is the more fair system, after all.”

  “That tends to be the way that reincarnation is portrayed to Western audiences; that is…” and he suddenly stopped, as Paul suddenly went limp. In a voice of concern, Jobran asked, “Are you OK?”

  Very weakly, Paul said, “Please…please, keep talking. I’m…tired of talking, but I like to just listen to the sound of your voice.”

  Flustered, Jobran said, “Well, let’s see: Buddhists traditionally teach the doctrine of extinction—that is, achieving Nirvana is like the individual soul being merged into the center of all things, where it loses its individual identity. It’s often compared to a drop of water merging into the ocean; the drop of water still exists, but its individual identity is lost. So, the sort of eternal life that is suggested in the eastern traditions is not necessarily a ‘personal’ immortality in the sense we think of in the west. In the west, groups like the Hare Krishnas emphasize achieving the ‘bliss’ of God-consciousness, but it’s far from clear that this is the ‘attraction’ from the standpoint of people who live in the east; self-denial is a much more common point of emphasis in the east, which would be anathema in the west.” He suddenly looked closely at Paul, and asked, “Paul? Are you OK?”

  Paul didn’t seem to be aware of Jobran, but said softly, in a dreamy voice, “You know, I used to hear that you can actually feel life slipping away from you as you die…and I never believed it…but it’s….”

  “Paul!” Jobran asked, alarmed now. “Do you need the doctor?”

  Paul continued on in his dreamlike voice, “I thought it…like falling asleep, but…it’s like…the light of a candle…burning lower and lower until…”

  Jobran leapt to his feet, and ran to the door, where he yelled, “Doctor! Nurse! We need attention in here, immediately!”

  “…until it’s…”

  Jobran was now out in the hall yelling. Seeing that a
doctor and nurse were rushing towards the room in response to his call, he raced back to Paul’s side, in time to hear him whisper, “Miranda? Is it…?”

  Blind to the rules for hospice volunteers, Jobran asked Paul frantically, “Paul, can you see her? Is she there?” His voice cracking with emotion, Jobran choked out, “Will you be with her?”

  But Paul couldn’t answer—he was gone.

  Which the doctor confirmed; finally pulling the sheet gently over Paul’s face.

  * * *

  Later as Jobran tried to sleep, he lay awake thinking about this incredible experience. I’ve never had a person die in my presence before; what did it mean, him calling out the name of his deceased wife? Is it possible that she was coming to greet him, as the Near-Death researchers say? God, if only he’d been able to answer my question…I may never get another opportunity like that one…and he kept balling and unballing his fists, in frustration. Finally, he got up, to make himself a bowl of broth.

  As he was sipping his broth, Jobran realized that he was profoundly impressed by his encounter with Paul—a person who was simply content to let this life be the end, and who sought nothing more after death; a person who had lived a basically good and full life that he was reasonably satisfied with, and felt this was enough. Is it possible for this life alone to be “enough”? Jobran wondered, for the thousandth time. Would life lose all meaning, or would it be given greater meaning, if it did not continue on for eternity?

  Finally, he returned to bed, and eventually collapsed into a troubled sleep.

  38

  ’TIL DEATH DO US PART

  Jobran paid the taxi driver, and got out of the vehicle, carefully protecting his bouquet of roses. As the taxi drove away quickly, he looked with foreboding at the sign next to the entrance: St. John’s Cemetery. Today was the second anniversary of Sophia’s death. He had only been here once before—the day of Sophia’s funeral—and had been so grief-stricken that he hardly could recall any of the events of that day; fortunately, Sophia’s parents had taken care of all the funeral arrangements.

  But one thing was etched indelibly in his memory: The location of her grave. He could remember with exact precision the view in every direction, while standing at the foot of her plot. Often, these mental pictures would torment his consciousness, as he lay sleeplessly hour after hour. He set off walking slowly towards it, his dread increasing with each step.

  Finally, he arrived, and stood at the foot of the small plot. It was exactly as I’d remembered it: A simple metal plaque, surrounded by green grass, marked the spot. The inscription on the plaque read as follows:

  Sophia Maria Ramirez Winter Loving Daughter, Sister, Wife. 1980-2004

  Jobran’s eyes overflowed with tears, and the flowers fell from his hand, as he collapsed weakly to his knees, his hands coming to rest on the grass, and his slumped head dripping sorrowful tears to the soft grass.

  Sophia, if you can in some way hear me, I’m so sorry for not having come here before now—but I simply couldn’t bear it; the pain of losing you is still so overwhelming. Without you, honey, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—in this world that holds any attraction for me. I’ve tried…so hard…to dedicate myself to the ideal of rejoining you; I’ve given up so much of my life to this end. Jobran took a deep breath, clutching the grass tightly in his fists, so that it tore loose from the ground. But you, and the memory of our love, are always with me, sweetheart, through every waking moment; it is the only remaining joy in my life.

  Jobran sat down on the grass, not caring that it was still wet, and might stain his dress slacks. His tears continued to flow hotly and unashamedly, as he tenderly placed the roses in the container for them in front of her plaque. He walked to the nearby faucet, and after retrieving an empty cup from the trash can, filled with cup with water and returned to her grave. It was completely quiet; there was almost no traffic from the nearby roads, and even the birds were almost silent. It’s peaceful here; they picked a nice place for you. He returned to her grave, and carefully filled up the container now holding the flowers. I brought your favorites—red roses. For my beautiful, wonderful sweetheart. He sat down again, on the empty site next to her grave (that—although no one said it directly—was being reserved for his own death someday).

  I miss you so much, my love; my only love. There were so many times when we walked by each other, and I didn’t say or do anything, because it was so common; I didn’t reach out to kiss your hand, or touch your shoulder, or gently stroke the hair out of your eyes. I didn’t stop you to embrace you, or gently kiss your neck, or touch your soft lips with mine, because I figured we had all of our lives before us—there was no sense of need, or immediacy.

  But now I realize that every moment of love is infinitely precious. Gripping the grass so tightly that large clumps of it came off in his hands, he thought, I would gladly give up the entire wealth of the world for just one more day, even one more hour, with you, my love. If only you could…and he broke down completely, falling face down on the grass, and sobbing.

  Finally, the spell passed. He forced himself to get back to his knees, and wiped his eyes. His hands were dirty and grass-stained, and his clothes were wet. Looking at the empty grave next to Sophia’s, he thought, What if my quest comes to naught? What if, after all my effort, it turns out that it really isn’t possible to be reunited with you? What if we truly are separated, for all of eternity? Jobran forced himself to sit up abruptly. No, my love—that’s the one thought I cannot allow myself to think…

  There was a mild breeze blowing, which felt cool against the moisture on Jobran’s face. The grounds looked quite peaceful; Sophia’s parents picked a good spot, he decided. The thought of her parents brought a blush of shame to his cheeks. I’m so sorry that things went to wrong between me, and your parents, honey. If you can see us, I know that it must be tearing you apart, to see us alienated from each other like this. I tried at first, but…I was never that comfortable around your family when you weren’t there anyway, and…I know, I should have tried harder. But I felt so guilty, and the way your father looked at me just tore me apart inside. At first, I thought that maybe I’d just give things a few days to settle down, and then call your Mama. But the days turned into weeks, then into months, and now I wouldn’t even know what to say to any of them. I tried sending them a Christmas card last year with my new phone number, but I never heard anything…

  A sudden breeze came up, knocking several of the flowers over. Gently, Jobran rearranged them in the metal container, making them more snug this time. She always loved flowers, he thought. I’m glad I remembered to get some last night.

  He looked carefully at the grass on Sophia’s plot, and pulled up a few tiny weeds. He gently and lovingly used a handkerchief to dust off Sophia’s plaque. Finally, he sat back, becoming conscious of his surroundings. He was grateful that the cemetery grounds were so well-kept, and that it was located in an area of the city in which there was relatively little traffic, which contributed to the overall peaceful atmosphere. In a strange way, he almost felt a sense of communion with her, sitting next to her plot.

  Sophia, what do you think about my life since you’ve been gone? I’ve never even looked at another woman, much less dated, since you passed; is that what you would want? His eyes clouding over with tears again, he thought, If only we could talk, just for a few minutes. If only I could ask you what you think, what you feel, what you think I should be doing. Abraham—he’s gone now, too, as is Ted; they were my only friends—Abraham used to tell me, “You knew Sophia better than anyone else in the world; you know perfectly well what Sophia would say to you if she were here right now.” But he was wrong; I truly don’t know what you would say to me now, if you were here. I now realize how very little I truly knew about you. He clenched and unclenched his fists, in frustration. What would you say to me, Sophia? Would you offer words of comfort, or consolation, or love? Woul
d you encourage me in what I am doing, or would you reproach me? Would you disgustedly tell me to “stop moping around over me, and get on with your life?” Or would you gently tell me to remain faithful, because my persistence will eventually be rewarded? I don’t know, and the uncertainty of it is killing me, sweetheart.

  Jobran suddenly stood up. My love, I certainly knew you far better than I’ve ever known anyone, and yet it all seems so inadequate, now. Although we talked intimately so many times, how can I ever know what was truly in your heart? I can see now that there so many times that you surely were trying to avoid hurting my feelings, and so you were unwilling to speak out for your own wishes and desires, usually deferring to whatever I wanted to do. And I was to self-centered and egocentric to realize it. He felt the bitter tears of regret falling freely from his eyes. So whenever I thought that “we” were deciding something, who knows? Maybe you were just going along with whatever I wanted to do, to keep from hurting me, or to avoid having an argument.

  Jobran knelt before her plaque, kissed the tip of the finger with his wedding ring on it, then lovingly traced the letters of her name with this finger.

  Sophia, I’m lost without you. I’ve come up with things to distract me intellectually, but it’s only a means of delaying the time when I must face up to the fact that there is nothing in this world for me, if it’s without you.

  He looked at a plane flying overhead, then at the traffic from the nearby road, then at the other people visiting graves here—often bringing elaborate arrangements of flowers, balloons, and such. He saw several small children playing with the balloons their parents had brought, oblivious to their parents’ attempts to restrain their childlike sense of play.