Going to Heaven

Sitting in a radiology waiting room early on a Thursday morning, we were the clear “sore thumbs.”  No one else in the under-60 crowd could be found there.  The old ladies talked and caught up, many knowing each other from other life activities.

 

The woman next to me was a stitch.  I listened to her recount the story of why she was even there that morning:

 

“Oh, you should have seen it, Dorothea.  There I was, leaning on my carriage at Walmart, because, you know, it helps me walk a little.  I was leaving the store and tried to avoid a young family.  I backed up straight into a pallet and landed flat on my back!  And you know what?  All I could think was, ‘thank heavens I wore slacks today!’”

 

She smiled at our three small children and asked our son, who was closest to her, how old he was.  He told her he was six.  She leaned in closer, “You know old I am?  Ninety-four!” she said proudly.

 

A’s blue eyes grew wide.

 

“Wow,” he said reverently.  “You get to go to heaven soon!”

 

Merciful heavens.  I opened my mouth to do damage control, but her laugh would have drowned out any words I managed to fumble out anyhow.

 

“Oh, bless his heart,” she giggled, “he has great faith in my soul!”

 

And who could ask for a more beautiful soul than hers?

 

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