Two Tickets To Paradise

CHAPTER 01: PICKING FRUIT IN PARADISE

The first time I realized that my inherited childhood religion was not for me, I was standing at a stranger’s door feeling like a quick-draw cowgirl: my right hand resting ever-so-slightly on the latest copies of “The Watchtower” and “Awake!” as I waited, watched, and listened for the faintest sign of interest. I was poised and ready to whip out my weapons, twirl them around and point to a picture of “paradise,” which usually consisted of savage beasts now docile, co-mingling with domesticated humans near a waterfall. The domesticated humans wore suits, sundresses and a glazed-over, expectant smile while busily picking fruit — which always disturbed me as a child. Why was everyone picking fruit and why were they doing it in their dress clothes? I’d seen farmers harvesting their crops in the middle of a hot day. It didn’t look like paradise to me.

The stranger who planted the first seed of doubt in me was a long and lean musician type, devastatingly handsome, shirtless, sweaty, oozing sin, his hip bones just barely caressing the top of his jeans. He had dirty, mangled hair, the kind of hair one gets when they’re brilliant and tortured, too creatively inspired to engage in something as common as grooming.

He looked deep into my eyes and let his gaze travel slowly over the rest of my body, over my pastel-colored sundress and my thick, flesh-colored nylons that met up with sensibly heeled sandals. I gulped.

“H-hello. How are you today?”

“I’m good, baby. How are you?” he answered, reaching up into the door frame as if searching for a hidden key, stretching, seductive, cat-like.

“Um- I, I’m pretty good, too! Nice day!”

“Real nice,” he purred. “What can I do for you, pretty girl?”

So un-cool, man! How could I do it? How could I tell him that I was a Jehovah’s Witness there to share a Bible thought? Ew! Who cared about that? I wanted to share anything but the Bible with this stranger. I wanted to lose myself in his filthy hair and sing folk songs and drink moonshine if that’s what he was offering. I wanted to burn “666” in his chest hair and take a Polaroid and send it to the JW headquarters.

But then it hit me…he’s not as important as seeing her again. Nothing was as important as that. I had to keep the faith whether it made sense or not. I had to do everything perfectly if I ever wanted to see her again because He was watching. Not to mention I didn’t recognize any of the stirrings in my body, or why my face was on fire, or why my voice was quivering. I could only trust what I’d been taught: “Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for.” Oh, how I hoped to see her again.

Reluctantly, but with practiced, robotic skill, I reached into my bag and pulled out the latest and greatest editions of “The Watchtower” and “Awake!” and said, “I’m here to share a Bible thought. Have you ever thought about living in paradise?”

I winced, waiting for the laugh or the standard “I’m not interested,” but what I heard instead was, “Maybe. Will you be there, baby? I’d like to share some paradise with you.”

Laughter from another room…a waft of sweet smoke, a yank of my arm, a closing door, more laughter and there I was, standing in the middle of a bright, sunny day on a banal, suburban street, my reality altered, carnal questions rushing through my veins.

“Sister!” snapped the senior citizen zealot that had lost me a few houses back. “Never go to the door alone! It’s very dangerous! That man was not interested in hearing The Truth!”

I took a long look at my elderly companion who had spent her entire life shuffling from door to door speaking “The Truth” to strangers on their porches, their front yards and their living rooms. Strangers who had stopped washing their car for a moment, turned down the radio long enough to be polite and utter over a barking dog, “No, thank you.” Strangers who were despondent or just plain tired, wearily chasing their kids around, who would ask just who she thought she was to interrupt their day. Strangers who had invited her in and read along from their own Bibles, searching for answers, wary of this thing called “The Truth” and the arduous possibility of living forever.

I looked into her piercing blue eyes of servitude and without hesitation, said,

“No one cares! This is dumb!”

“Wait in the car,” she replied curtly. “Clearly, you need more Bible study.”

I was 12 years old and I had experienced an epiphany: the “truth” does not always set you free.