Visions of a second calling | Our Corner

I had a vision about my job in the afterlife. I am not big on visions since I am very nearsighted, but forced yard work causes these events for me.

I had a vision about my job in the afterlife. I am not big on visions since I am very nearsighted, but forced yard work causes these events for me.
I was diligently killing something in my yard when it happened. It was kind of a reincarnation job I should be perfectly suited for … a political bell ringer.
I am not saying I necessarily buy into or out of the concept of reincarnation. The biggest problem I see with reincarnation is coming back. Most days the prospect or returning here seems like some sort of twisted torture, although maybe I could get certain things answered. That might be happier, if it is possible for Mr. Happy to get happier.
Maybe I could find out why women do all those sparkly things to their fingernails and I never get to do anything like that without people chasing me with pitchforks. Maybe I could find out why women buy shoes with two straps for a large bucket of money and call it a hot deal.
God probably doesn’t have the answers to these questions.
I can see God asking Michael, “What are those?”
“Shoes, God.”
“You’re kidding. Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me anything?”
My twisted yard work vision goes like this: when I kick off it will be like the first few days I was in Navy boot camp. We were allowed to go to bed about midnight after doing nothing. Then some very loud guys got us up and gave us a stupid test for hours.
So in my vision I die and suddenly some grouchy guy in fake sandals wakes me up, gives me a essay test with a dull pencil and finally I am given a bell.
My job is like that of Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” only altered, of course. (I doubt I get to be an angel. I think I am too cheery.)
Every time some politician starts to do something dumb I will whack him with a bell. The poor political guy will glaze over for a minute, get a headache and mumble something like, “What was I saying?”
No one will remember and the guy stays out of trouble. Everybody holds hands and sings.
Ding dong!
There’s a job I might be suited for – bell whacker.
By the way, the job the Navy gave me after their test was … running psychiatric wards.

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