Overcast, not too warm yet. OK, let’s see some neighbors casting off their earthly husks and joining the celestial flight. I know I won’t be going, but let’s take an inventory. To my left (my computer faces West) is the Butcher Boy Burgers restaurant. As if the name weren’t enough, I don’t think Jerry’s going. His lawn keeper, perhaps. That strapping black man trying to make a buck, mowing in the dead of night, perhaps he’s the apple of Almighty’s eye. When I call bullshit on the lateness of his mowing hours, he jumps off his tractor saying in that James Jones baritone, “now, don’t curse me.” To my right, another mowin’ maniac, lives Bob. Like many around here, he’s retired Air Force. Although ‘peace is their profession,’ I doubt that a maker of war, even a mere employee of the war machine, will be making the rapturous cut. On the other side of the street, more retired AF, a professor, and the father of a gaggle of teenagers, none qualified, in my opinion. Of course, it’s not my opinion that counts here.

How many square miles out do I have to go to find a truly virtuous soul? Let he who is without sin book the first passage. If tomorrow we’re all still here, might the reason be that none were worthy? What’s the base requirement? To be truly worthy or to merely claim to be? I myself was washed in the blood many years ago, but in the meanwhile, dipped in shit.

How far away does the mower live? I’ll be paying attention to that direction.