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A Dream Shows There’s a Place for Humor in Heaven

By Schaefer Kendrick

Schaefer Kendrick
(As background for this essay, we had a huge sweet gum tree in the backyard at our house on Lakecrest Drive in Greenville, SC. It provided wonderful shade over the driveway and in the fall, displayed vivid colors of deep purples and reds. Dad absolutely adored this tree for these reasons. But, because of the hundreds of balls it dropped on the driveway and in the yard, it was the bane of my younger brother’s existence. He was responsible for raking them up so that we wouldn’t twist our ankles walking on them. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that the day my father died in his sleep, before the coroner was notified, my brother called the tree surgeon to arrange the demise of the tree.)

I was in heaven, not because of living a virtuous life; I was dreaming. Standing before me was this enormous gate which seemed to say, “This is not your destination,” and I was verily intimidated. Yet my strength was equal to the bell pull overhead which I pulled, and the bell tolled. As the vibrations of that great instrument raced toward the shores of infinity, this mighty gate swung open.

Seated at a huge desk, adorned with marquetry, was old Saint Peter himself; wise of countenance, piercing eyes, receding hairline, and a luxurious white beard, virile in texture, and shaped with obvious professional skill. (I had never thought of barbers inheriting the Kingdom of Heaven. I was taught it was the meek, which would eliminate barbers.)

In a deep and profound voice that sounded as though Beethoven had been its architect and Wagner it general contractor, he said, “What, Mr. Kendrick, is your business here?” This seems a strange question to ask one who had just died. Of all heavenly creatures who ought to know what my business was, it surely should be Saint Peter, guardian of the Pearly Gates.

Puzzlement, not procrastination, was the cause of my hesitation. My impulse was to answer that question, briefly and to the point, by countering with this question: “Am I in or am I out?” A mature judgment vetoed that idea on the basis that Saint peter might consider it frivolous and this was no time for frivolity. In this short encounter, I couldn’t tell whether the saint did or didn’t have a sense of humor, and because the stakes were so high, I couldn’t run the risk of his being humorless.

Instinctively, I reached for my billfold to get out a business card but I immediately realized this was a stupid impulse for he had already addressed me as “Mr. Kendrick,” and, besides, my card said “Attorney at Law,” which fact, under these circumstances, I thought best not to reveal.

Impatiently, Saint Peter cleared his throat and the heavens reverberated in a crescendo of sound. I had appeared before many impatient judges and had trained myself to maintain composure; this proved helpful in this situation.

As my mind flashed possible answers to his question (mimicking a megabite computer), one emerged that seemed to have real potential, and I latched on to it.

“Saint Peter, sir, in answer to your question, ‘What is your business here?’ I wish to see the Almighty to humbly ask him some questions only He can answer.”

His eyes lit. “You want to question the Lord?”

“Saint Peter, sir, I said ‘humbly.’”

His summary attitude changed to one of interest.

“Give me an example of the kind of questions you want to ask.”

I think to myself that Old St. Peter, in addition to being a disciple, must have at one time sat on the trial bench in Jerusalem.

He has really put me on the spot. Which of the questions, that had been so troublesome to me while on earth, shall I choose? Shall it be the one about suffering, or natural calamities, or temptation, or about the timing of death? Then I thought, “No, these are too general. The question should be specific.” At this point the idea light flashed on. The question was one I had asked many times but never, ever came close to a sensible answer.

“Saint Peter, sir, I want to humbly as the Almighty why he planned it so that one sweet gum tree would produce thousands, upon thousands of sweet gum balls?”

The mighty roar of Saint Peter’s laughter woke me up, and now I live with the comfortable assurance: There is a place for humor in heaven, but I hope not for the sweet gum balls.

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