I wish to dedicate this poem to my great-nephew, Timo Mueller in Germany. His comments about Michael Jackson being in Heaven, helped inspire me with this writing.
MICHAEL JACKSON IS IN HEAVEN
When our son was quite close to turning eight
He asked about “God and the pearly gate.”
His friend had bragged that his aunt went to Heaven.
She’d seen Michael Jackson and Uncle Kevin.
He kept bringing home such things from school.
At times it was hard to keep our cool.
We discussed it all and came up with a plan.
‘Twas then our religious endeavors began.
We decided we’d start with grace before meals.
We’d support the local church with its appeals.
Some of our neighbors attended that church.
‘Twas down near the river by the weeping birch.
The grace we knew was short and sweet.
We’d all say it before we’d eat.
When foreigners came, they’d say their grace,
In their own languages, that took place.
He wondered how God could understand
Languages from each different land.
We explained that God was everywhere
On the earth, the sea and in the air.
The church always had an annual fair
So we obliged and accompanied him there.
There were quilts for sale and jams and honey.
We had tea and scones and spent our money
On lots of books about God and Heaven.
We ended up with ten or eleven.
Tickets were for sale on a new truck.
Our son believed God would bring us luck.
The sun was shining on the towering steeple
Casting its shadow on some of the people.
We’d wandered around for over an hour.
It was time to look at the old bell tower
That intrigued our son to such an extent
That, until we explored it, he wasn’t content
And so we agreed to venture inside.
“Wow, such a humungous bell!” he cried.
Behind the weeping birch was the old graveyard
Where the tallest headstones were always on guard.
Our son asked sadly why people had died.
We told him the truth since we never lied.
He quizzed, “Where was God when they all grew old?
How about the miracles I’ve been told?”
He was quiet for a while, not one more query.
The graveyard was starting to feel quite eerie.
He greeted some friends, their moms and dads.
They were such polite and friendly lads.
Some were wearing their Sunday best,
Dress shirts, ties, and an odd satin vest.
He asked about a girl in a wheelchair
Whose cheeks were so rosy from the crisp air.
She wore a velvet bow in her silken hair,
“Shouldn’t God always try to be fair?”
I nodded to the young boy pushing her chair.
He seemed quite shy and his skin was very fair.
On the hand that was missing one white glove,
‘Twas almost as white as the wings of a dove.
There were glider rides for sale at the fair.
Our son assured me, “God is in the air.”
I was nervous about flying high in the sky
But our son was very keen to give it a try.
I summoned my husband heading to the biffy,
“Won’t be long,” he cried, “ I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Then I urged our son, “You’ll need to go.”
“No, “ he said, “ God’s in there. You said so.”
On the door was a sign about Mass and confession,
Choir practice times and an early morning session.
There was even a mention of Sunday School,
Offers of free rides and with whom to carpool.
Before very long the helpers were packing,
Tables were folded, the chairs they were stacking.
The leftover scones were all put away
To be served again on some other day.
The priest remarked that the day was pleasant.
He smiled and noticed that we were present.
Our son was happy he’d met some friends.
We realized we’d started some new trends.
The poor girl in the wheel chair waved us goodbye
Her Michael-Jackson-fan brother whispered, “Hi.”
With that we decided it was time to leave.
At least, for a while, we’d enjoy a reprieve.
GAIL RUNSCHKE
