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By Sheila Orysiek
 SAN DIEGO—Judaism doesn't have much to say about heaven and what little it does say is mostly tangential. This is probably because we are instructed to direct our energies toward solving the problems of the "here and now" – on earth – in our daily lives. In contrast Christianity is very much about heaven; how to get there and how to avoid the "other" place.
However, if one thinks about it, if there is a heaven, Judaism has that contingency covered too. If one spends one's time and energy improving the communal experience, doing Mitzvot, then if there is a heaven, the pearly gates would open wide. But, the next question is: "What happens in heaven?"
What makes heaven – well, heavenly? Does one spend one's eternity walking about in togas or wispy garments, playing a lute or lyre? Actually, that sounds rather boring. Surely, heaven could not by definition be a boring place – that wouldn't be heavenly. So – then what? Eating one's favorite chocolate goody (would it have to be white chocolate? – that's an oxymoron), slurping up cheeseburgers? Well, pretty soon that toga wouldn't fit. Oh wait! I get it – true heaven is eating all one wants – whatever one wants – without the toga getting tight.
But suppose heaven consists of revisiting one's past environs? All the places we lived transported to heaven and we could walk into the house of our childhood, the place we lived when first married, the rooms in which we raised our children. A bedroom where we slept as a child, a crib, a small bed, a teen room full of pictures, piles of clothes and giggles of friends. The room of a wedding night, the bedrooms of our parents, how the rooms changed over the years. On the bureaus are our childish possessions, birthday cards, gifts – beloved – but long forgotten; the treasures of our lives. And, those places we wish to avoid – since this is heaven – are not there.
Against the wall the bookcase my father made with all my books – especially "Lad, A Dog" by Albert Payson Terhune, the first one I ever owned – and still have - given to me by a school friend. There's the Haftarah in Yiddish that I can't find – but know I would never have thrown it out. In the drawers – folded neatly by my mother and later rumpled by me – undies, socks, hidden keepsakes, my skate key, a favorite keychain used for hop scotch, my ball and jacks (I still have those in a bureau drawer), my trading cards (also still with me) and a coin I found while planting seeds in the back yard hoping for flowers which never grew.
In the closet are all the clothes I ever owned. When I open a photo album and see a picture of myself – I can barely remember owning the dress or skirt and blouse I am wearing. Yet, I must have selected and bought them in a store, worn them many times, and eventually somehow – one day tossed them aside for whatever reason. The pretty dress I wore on my first date, or a special birthday, my prom gown, the dress I
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wore when I met the man I would marry (I still have that red dress). Lined up are the shoes I wore – different colors, high heels with which to torture my feet. How ever did I cram my toes into those monstrosities?
And in a large room in heaven – we meet again all the people who passed through our lives. The fellow juror with whom I ate lunch for several weeks, whose company I enjoyed and then never saw again when our jury duty was over. All the dancers who shared a barre with me, commiserating over our achy feet and misplaced pirouettes. The kids in my elementary school with whom I shared so many years and then never saw again. Neighbors who moved away pledging undying friendship – only to drift apart with time and space. All the teachers who shaped my education - in heaven they are all there.
All the books I ever read - I promised myself I would keep a list but never did. All the things I ever lost; the album of sketches I carried around in junior high school with my name on it instructing whoever found it to return it to me – but never saw again. The purse which was stolen from me at lunch time in eighth grade which left me without money to get home on the bus. I searched and searched as I cried, and didn't realize the older girls who were giggling in the corner were the ones who stole it.
The beautiful marqusite Star of David my mother gave me when I was ten but shortly after – to my horror – slipped off a shelf and went down the drain of the bathroom sink. Forty years later I found a similar one, bought it, and sent it to my mother as a return gift.
Heaven would have a room with all the wonderful 78, 45 and 33 RPM record albums I owned – plus the turntable upon which to play them. And my baby brownie camera (which I still have) would be there too. On the wall is all the crayon art work from kindergarten through twelfth grade, my report cards, and the valentine cards from classmates in elementary school. The birthday cakes and cards – back when a birthday was the highlight of my year. What fun to once again open all the gifts from those birthdays and Hanukahs.
I could walk through my present house as it was when we moved in 43 years ago and then watch how it changed – furniture, carpets, drapery, appliances, cars in the garage, views from the windows, the garden flowers, how the trees grew – and everyone who ever visited would come again. The big suppers I used to spend such time and effort creating; Passover for 20, pumpkin pies made from fresh pumpkin I had hand mashed; a formal sit down luncheon for 34 – how much work! How much fun!
And then there are all my toys; the squeaky rubber pig someone stole, the Kewpie doll I adored, the doll's push carriage and all her clothes and other accoutrements. The doll house my mother made for me, my precious jump rope and skates (the key of which I was always losing – oh yes – it's in the bureau undie drawer!)
But, seeing the toys again is really not a problem. I have merely to walk through almost any antique mall and there they are – my toys – on sale as antiques.
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