Who Will I Be With in Heaven

I love Los Angeles.

I always have.

The tall palm trees lining the streets and the broad mountain ranges coupled with the cool weather constantly remind me that it is a desert. Its range of neighborhoods and economic classes gives the city a diversity that is unlike other places. Its polarities also carry with it the essence of life. So many different types of people living side by side. There are always so many things to do here, one could occupy themselves every hour of the day. I imagine myself coming here more often . . . But I shake the thought, as I also love peace and quiet.

It seems the car is the mode for that here. In such a sprawling metropolis, the requirement to have a car seems to give people a respite from the hustle and bustle. They lock themselves into their little motorized vehicles and navigate across miles. I’ve heard that they become pod-like or bubbles in which to momentarily isolate themselves from the millions of others surrounding them.

My preference is to move through the city as an independent entity. I am able to interact with the humans and the details of their lives as I pass by, unbeknownst to them. Today, as I arrive in Los Angeles, my priority is to find music, my favorite activity, and to see as many people as possible, perhaps I might be able to find something worthy of my participation.

My first stop is the unique locale of the Venice Beach boardwalk. I love looking at the picturesque landscape of the ocean with the Santa Monica Mountains in the background. There are few places where the two coexist in such peaceful proximity. On the boardwalk, with its long and wide pedestrian pathway adjacent to miles of sand and the Pacific Ocean and eccentric shops and restaurants, I know it is one of the best places to find local musicians. They perform on the street, the wide variety of people that I enjoy to find in one place. A young couple is playing classic rock over there, but it is the sound of a violin that draws me to a group of tourists huddled in front of a young man in his thirties standing dressed in a suit with his beat-up violin in hand. He is playing a classical tune of which I am not familiar. I search to find the kind of notes that speak to my soul, relax me, and let every note flow though me.

The player’s violin case is open in front of him, a gesture welcoming tips from the audience for his talent. Although only a few coins and one or two bills lay scattered in the case, the violin player enthusiastically plays, hoping to inspire a few more tips. An older woman drops some spare change into the case. The violinist displays an appreciative smile and continues to play.

I notice a strange-looking man standing in the crowd. He appears to be scanning the crowd, possibly looking for someone or something. I keep my eyes on him, seeing his next move. Suddenly, he steps into the crowd, standing close to a young woman, and attempts to pick-pocket the wallet from her purse.

“This won’t do . . .” I murmur.

Right before the pick-pocket can get his hands on the wallet, the woman reaches back to put her hand in her purse. The pick-pocket retreats from his target, clearly startled that the woman almost grazed his hand as she reached into her bag. Unaware of the man, the woman pulls out a handful of change and walks to the open violin case, dropping in her coins. Deciding against his earlier intentions, the pick-pocket finally walks away, clearly upset about his failed attempt.

Choices, choices, choices, I think as I listen to the tunes of the violin. As he finishes his song, the violin performer bows to the crowd before him, then readies the violin beneath his chin for his next song. A hefty breeze blows over the crowd from the cresting ocean as I turn to continue my journey.

With the sound of the strings in my mind, I continue to walk down the boardwalk, observing the people and activities going on around me. I notice the architecture of the buildings; how different the structures are from one another. The rounded corners and long stretches of concrete slabs, the new buildings like square blocks, Mediterranean-style houses with terra-cotta roof tiles, and other old places with ugly stucco walls collide to reflect the diversity of Los Angeles itself.

After a few blocks, I turn onto a busy street and sense something amiss. A red Jaguar is speeding in my direction, out of control, and its driver in clear distress. The brakes don’t seem to be working. I can see the man

inside struggling to stop the car without brakes. He will surely run the red traffic light.

Erratically honking the horn, the driver swerves around the cars stopped at the light, almost losing complete control. Pedestrians on the sidewalk stop to look at the scene, covering their mouths in anticipation of what will happen next.

As the car speeds past the red light, a young woman gets ready to cross the road. She does not see the car speeding her way. She appears lost in thought! There is simply no time to warn her. By the time the car speeds past her, the woman will be in the middle of the crosswalk at exactly the same . . . the car will run her over! There is no time.

At that moment, the woman trips on the curb of the pavement and stumbles to the ground, still on the sidewalk. A frustrated look crosses her face as she stands up, looks at the coffee stain on her white shirt, and steps to put her high-heeled shoe back onto her foot. Hot coffee spills over her hand and onto the pavement. Finally hearing the blaring horn, she looks up and sees the red Jaguar speeding past. Her eyes widen in surprise.

In his last attempt, the driver of the speeding car comes to a screeching halt on the side of the road. His face is filled with fear and confusion as he stumbles out of the car, breathing heavily. He stands there as if stoned, trying to make sense of what happened. He looks up and sees the bystanders on the sidewalk start to slowly walk away. He spots the woman standing at the crosswalk, staring at him as she brushes the stain from her shirt. She shakes her head at him then hurls the coffee cup into the trash before stomping to the other side of the road, still complaining about falling and getting her clothing stained. Most people don’t realize that sometimes things happen for the best.

We generally don’t interfere with people’s free will, even if they are going to commit a crime, hurt themselves or others, and even if their acts work against God’s fundamental principles. Only when we are directed by the Boss himself do we intervene, usually from the effect of intense prayer or genuine intentions are we allowed to change the course of someone’s life, even if they might go back to their immoral habits. If it’s not me, one of us deals with them when they reach the end of the line. One of the members of our team welcomes them into whatever path will be laid for them.

Speaking of teams . . . I glide over the busy freeways and street traffic, millions of lights from a million cars create the scene as I arrive at Dodgers Stadium to catch the last part of a baseball game. I can hear the sounds of cheering fans and the Dodgers’ announcer calling the game from someone’s handheld radio as I move up the hill to the stadium. I walk to the entryway of the grand old stadium, through its open-air passageways and down into the bleachers. The stadium is packed, and only a few seats remain unoccupied. I glance at the scoreboard. The Dodgers are losing at the bottom of the ninth inning and they have one last chance to score. On the field the Dodgers have two men on base; one on third base, another on second, and a man at home plate. With two outs, it does not look like the home team will take this win. I can see the desperation in the players’ faces and in the faces of the devout fans.

A quick glance across the stadium shows me that every single heart is busy silently praying, some willing to beg for a near miracle for a Dodgers’ win. The anticipation and adrenaline are palpable. Every eye in the stadium is on the field. Everybody is waiting for the final move.

The hitter at the home plate gets ready. For a few seconds, everybody holds their breath, even the players. Then, the pitcher releases the ball with a swift flick of his hand, sends the ball hurtling towards the hitter. It’s going to be an easy fly ball.

It feels as if the ball floats slowly in the air for a long time, but in only a split second, the ball connects with the hitter’s bat, and it flies towards left field. A huge “Oh . . .!” resonates across the crowd as the fans watch in awe, some standing and readying to leave, others with their eyes frozen on the ball.

Let me make the home team and the people in the stadium happy for a change, I think.

As the outfielder goes to catch the ball, he thinks it will be an easy catch; a great way to end the game and take the win. With that thought, he loses his concentration on the ball coming his way and, in an instant, drops the ball.

Suddenly coming to life, the players on third and second round the bases to score and the Dodgers win the game.

As I watch the home team making their approach to the catcher’s box, the woman sitting next to me, along with everybody else, jumps up and shouts, “What a miracle!”

I smile at her comment.

Back on the field, I look at the sheer happiness on the players’ faces as they run to each other, hugging and cheering. Their...