I don’t care whether there is life after death. That may seem odd, but I tend to be a contrarian with regard to my own feelings, a habit since childhood. So I do not live a roller-coaster of hopes and fears. My emotions are like the plains of Kansas, so flat water doesn’t know which way to run. That includes the afterlife. Still, as long as I had God on the line, it seemed like something I should ask about.
I was reprimanded for asking. I was told that I didn’t really want to know, I was asking merely because I thought I should, and I should figure out why I didn’t want to know.
At first, I had no idea, but then it came to me. As I pictured the afterlife, it was boring and lonely, like driving all night on one of those long western highways.
Then I was given a series of images—more accurate ways to picture the afterlife. The first was to become immersed in wonders of nature of incomparable beauty. The second was to imagine being an Einstein whose mind now grasped fully all the vast mysteries of the universe, having the ultimate “Aha!” experience over and over again. Another was listening with full intensity to music more lovely than any the world has ever known. Or, finally, it was like being in love, but with a vaster compass, sustained over endless time, and receiving boundless love in return.