The Cool Side of Heaven

We’ve been told we’re not typical Christians.  We don’t shout, “Praise the Lord!” when we find a close-up parking spot.  We don’t wear suits or dresses with big bows.  When people do things we don’t like, we don’t tell them they’re going to hell.

This isn’t a problem.  Only judgmental Christians take one look at us and think we’re going to hell.  We’re not – we’re going to the same place they are, only we’ll be on the cool side of heaven, hanging out and partying with our wild and fun Christian friends.  The religious Christians can make casseroles for the heavenly pot-lucks and piously play the harp or something.

This particular cul-de-sac gets more unsolicited overly religious Christians than anywhere else I’ve lived, and I’ve lived in Idaho.  It hasn’t been a month since three sensible-dress-wearing women came to our door to enquire about our souls.  It’s getting hard to act Christian with all these Christians trying to save us all the time.   I want to yell at them, but that doesn’t seem right.

Last weekend, I was out pick-axing in the front yard.  It was hot and the dirt was so dry I was creating my own personal tornado.  Wearing nothing but a sports bra and shorts and working up a sweat, I’m sure I wasn’t giving a very holy impression.

A white sedan drove up and parked in our cul-de-sac.  They wore the clothing of judgmental Christians: semi-formal wear circa 1985.  You don’t wear suits, white shirts and ties when it’s 90 degrees at 9 AM for no reason.  They walked around in pairs and knocked on everyone’s door.  Everyone’s but mine. 

Eventually a sensible-dress-wearing young woman walked toward me.    She kept her distance and stayed out of my tornado.  She said, “You look like you’re doing a lot of work around here.  What an improvement.” 

I felt like saying, “Get it over with, I have pick-axing to do.”  Instead, I accepted her compliment and pretended I was wearing more clothing and less dirt.  This is how I create confidence in myself: I pretend I look exactly like them.

When she started in on her well-rehearsed lecture, I said, “I belong to a Church that I love.  I have no reason to change.” 

I expected her to fight me.  I expected her to say something like, “The Church of Elvis isn’t going to get you to heaven,” since we’re in Oregon.  Church means many more things here than anywhere else I’ve lived.

Instead, she tugged at brochures tucked into her bible and told me she wanted to give me something.  “You save it, but thank you anyway.”  I smiled and didn’t even start pick-axing until she complimented my yard and walked away.  I didn’t know I could be so nice.

She blew it when she and her buddies parked their white car in front of the neighbor’s mailbox again, one week later, and started knocking on doors all before 9 AM. 

I hadn’t even started getting dirty yet.  I’m not sweaty and I have way too much energy to be nice this time.  I got angry.  I wasn’t going to smile this time.  I was ready to find all the anger I had built up from living with teenagers and vent it all over them.  Bring on your bible.  I’m ready.

Instead of trying to save me again, she and her pals walked right out of the cul-de-sac.  There’s a busy street with only a few tiny houses once you go beyond our bubble.   The owners of these houses have lived here for a long, long time.  They don’t like anything new and that seems to include people, too.

There’s one crotchety old guy in particular who’ll tell why you’re ruining the world even if you’re just walking by.  The carful of Christians might get a good discussion going with him.  He could talk about something more than which side of the road you should be walking on, and they might get rid of a brochure.  It could be good for both of them.

While building up my anger waiting for them to dare come back, I got out the pick-ax and started breaking up the rocky dust-bowl we call a front yard.  I only had a few plants left to get into the ground, so even if I was being lazy, I could feel good about something this morning.

Every time I lifted the pick ax, a little ball of dry dirt came up with it.  Then when the pick ax was right over my neck, ready to be released, the little ball went right down my neck, under my shirt and down my back.  I hadn’t really had enough coffee for this.  It helped keep my anger right where I could reach it, right on the tip of my tongue, waiting for the clean and neat passengers of the religious white car.

Then the neighbor boy saw me through his screen door.  He yelled out, “Hi, Mrs. Jill,” in a high voice like he was excited to see me.  I look over but don’t see the kid.  The cul-de-sac is empty except for my seething.

“I can’t see you, Connor.”

“I’m right here,” he said, and he used this as an invitation to come out and watch me.  He didn’t get too close.  I don’t think he likes random dirt clods falling close on him either.

“We don’t want you to move.”

“That’s a nice thing to say,” I said.  “It won’t be soon.  Have you seen the inside of this dump?”

“We like you guys.”

“We usually move every two years.  Longer than that and the neighbors start wishing we’d move.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“What?”

“Are you getting rid of your grass?”

“What grass?”  We have nothing but brown dusty dirt and rocks in our front yard.  The driveway looks better.  The only green things are dandelions.  There’s more of them in the driveway cracks than in the yard.  Nothing grows in this dust bowl.

The kid kept talking but I told him I couldn’t hear him so he went back inside.  I wanted to finish pick-axing before the carful of Christians returned and I’ve seen this kid talk.  He’s stood next to Charlie all afternoon asking questions.  I couldn’t keep seething with him around.  He’s too cute.

I turned up “Car Talk” and planted my last few straggly $2 Home Depot clearance bushes.  I had this odd combination of anger against people who think they can convert me through a cheap brochure, and pride at finally getting the last plants in the dusty ground. 

The carful of Christians returned right then and I was ready.  I wasn’t wearing my heathen-looking sports bra dripping with pagan-appearing dirty sweat, but I was still an easy target being the only visible soul in the whole cul-de-sac. 

I waved.

They waved back looking kind of scared.  They got in their car in a hurry and drove away.  I don’t think they made a full stop at the sign.

Hey, wait a minute, I thought.  Aren’t I worthy of being bothered? Apparently I was more excited to tell them off then they were excited about saving me.

I figured it out: they must have knocked on the crotchety neighbor’s door.  I would have loved to hear that conversation.  I couldn’t help but smile at the possibilities.  My seething was done for this day.

This must be the peace that passes understanding, because even lazy skateboarders couldn’t figure out a way to piss me off for the rest of the day.  Believe me, they did a good job trying.

A little help? [] 9:51:52 PM