Paradise

"Well, Miss Eudora, shall we take the road to Paradise?" Once on a leisurely drive through the hot Mississippi Delta, Willie Morris, the writer and former editor ofHarper's Magazine, asked his passenger Eudora Welty this penetrating question. Apparently, they had come upon a sign pointing the way, pointing the way to Paradise. Without much hesitation, Miss Eudora responded, "I suppose we would be foolish not to."

It does indeed seem foolish not to when the sign points the way. I wonder if I follow the road to paradise as often as I might, sometimes even wondering if I see the sign. And like most men, I am loath to ask directions. I am not talking about eternal paradise (and neither were Mr. Morris and Ms. Welty). That is a road sign of another variety altogether.

Or is it? Paradise is paradise I suppose, and a missed moment of paradise is eternally missed, just as one grabbed is eternally enjoyed.

Yesterday, in one of those surprising moments when a simple conversation morphs into one that is suddenly quite serious, a friend near my age told me of the death of a good friend, not someone in his immediate circle that would involve his traveling to the other side of the country for the funeral but a real friend, one for whom he had deeply cared. As we continued to talk, I observed that I am now of an age where it is not as uncommon as it once was to have a contemporary die. Closer to sixty than to fifty, I have lived long enough that if I were to die now it would be a stretch for friends to say, "he was so young." Though I would want them to say it and they probably would, the truth is I am not that young.

It set me to thinking about paradise, again not the next-life kind. I have ceased to ponder a great deal what the church calls "eternal life," honestly not so much piously leaving it in God's hands as realizing that such existence is beyond my imagination, let alone control. I think life continues beyond this one, but I know it continues here until it doesn't. That is a strong argument for following all the signs to paradise.

I made a list of moments that shouldn't be missed, moments that arguably contain paradise; but they were such Hallmark schmaltz that I couldn't bring myself to share them (although it did occur to me that if this priest gig doesn't work out, I could get a job writing sweet messages in cheap cards!). But whether it is making a bucket list, smelling the roses, or picking the daisies (note the challenge in writing about such things), I suppose we would be foolish not to take the road to Paradise.