Christie Mastric

The older you get, the more you start thinking about what’s on the other side.

And by the other side, I don’t mean my neighbor’s fence. I know what’s on the other side — red oak trees and grass, mostly. I mean what’s on the other side, spiritually.

As a veteran of three years of Catholic grade school, I was exposed to the possibility of an afterlife — specifically, heaven — at a young age. However, I didn’t have the questioning part to my personality I now have. I kind of assumed heaven was an actual place in the sky where people earned their way to living on a floating cloud for eternity, with angels bearing gold chalices to keep you company.

I also thought of heaven as a lush garden with an arch signifying the entryway. Colorful gems dotted the insides of flowers or hung from branches, and a mowed path made it easy for people to get from one spot to the next.

Now I’m not sure of what awaits people when they leave this earthly realm. Personally, I do hope there’s a heaven, mainly for these reasons:

≤ Spending eternity in a state of bliss is OK by me. The Chicago Cubs win the World Series every year, I have an endless supply of Chunky candy bars and I’m between 6 and 9 years old, which were my peak years.

≤ Some folks don’t have a great time on Earth, and I think they deserve a better fate elsewhere.

≤ Other people have too good a time on Earth at the expense of other people, and they need to make amends. I’m not saying eternal hellfire is the answer, but maybe they need just a little extra time to reflect on their transgressions — and on a time clock with no overtime pay.

≤ I want to see my loved ones again, although the feeling might not be mutual. In fact, if they see me coming, they might hide behind a cloud.

≤ There needs to be a worthy “end goal” to add meaning to life.

I believe in science, but I think science and religion can mix, although I’m not sure of the details. It’s just that the whole thought of dying with nothing heading my way afterward depresses me. You don’t see. You don’t hear. You don’t think. You’re just gone.

Yes, I should take some comfort in that leaving the world better than when you entered it counts for something. Still, I don’t want to be put in the ground and forgotten.

So, I have developed some coping mechanisms to deal with the issue of whether there’s an afterlife.

These hark back to my early grade school years when catechism was part of my daily school routine. What intrigued me more than the Bible stuff, like Moses and Noah’s Ark, were the reports of Marian apparitions throughout the years.

The ones that interested me the most took place in Lourdes, France and Fatima, Portugal. Before you think I’m gullible, it should be known that documented miracles took place at these spots. Obviously, some probably have been fake, but some cases have credibility.

I think that part of what held my interest in apparations was the supernatural element. The middle and late 1960s — my peak years, remember — also was when one of my favorite shows, “Dark Shadows,” was on television. Watching the Gothic soap opera daily could have put me a semi-permanent supernatural state of mind.

I wanted to be around when something otherworldly happened. Near my grade school, a tree with three trunks that I creatively — or unoriginally — called the Triple Tree often beckoned to me. I hoped that were I fervent enough, I could get Our Lady to appear in the trunk, assuming there was enough room for her to fit. But then again, being an apparition, I figured she could get the set-up to work.

No amount of kneeling did the trick.

That’s OK. Most likely, I wasn’t worthy of a vision, having stolen candy a few times from local drugstores. Keeping an extensive holy card collection probably wouldn’t have put me over the top either.

So, my earthly existence continues.

Now at 63 years old, I’m starting to feel the aging process, although my voice still sounds young. For example, an employee of a local business was waiting for me, sight unseen, for my appointment after hearing only my voice over the phone.

The employee expressed surprise when he looked out over the big floor and did not see an elderly person. I actually was flattered that he was expecting a twenty-something to meet him.

Still, the march toward oblivion keeps going. I’m just not sure what awaits me on the other side. If I start to have too many doubts, maybe I’ll just take out one of my holy cards and meditate — ideally, with a Cubs game on TV.