A packaged thought.
Rosario lived a long, active, and good life, and died at peace with himself and full of years. He died somewhere in Malate, fast asleep on his bed.
His soul whisked upward quickly and he found himself before the Pearly Gates themselves, standing before Saint Peter. To his surprise, there was no Book of Names, just a little scale, and he was ushered onto it.
After three digits written in Hebrew popped out (and worried him, as he had neither the ability to read Hebrew nor ever cared to read the Book of Numbers in his dusty King James Bible), spake Saint Peter: “Your Spirit-Mass Index is 24.1. You have been deemed spiritually fit enough for Heaven. Welcome, and congratulations!” The saintly old Saint pulled a switch, the gates opened slowly and magnificently, and light engulfed every which way. Rosario ran inside with glee, still blinded by the light but running nevertheless, and bumped into an oddly familiar figure, with a graying beard and a face that was still far too bright to comprehend.
“Hello, my Child.”
“God! It—it—I…”
“It is really I, and yes, you are really in Heaven. Now, tell me: what is it you want the most?”
“What?”
“Go on, choose one. I will give it to you, and you will be happy with me for all eternity!”
“I have to choose?”
“Yup. Go on.”
“Err… Do family and friends count as one?”
“Nope.”
“Family and career?”
“Nope.”
“Knowledge of the universe and good company?”
“Nope.”
“Well, how about that…”
“Pick one, Rosario.”
He thought long and hard. God was a patient god, anyway, and did not rush him.
“Okay, then. I choose family. Let me see my family and be with them forever.”
“Alright, then. Enjoy, my child!”
And when Rosario’s family passed on, he was there to greet them at the Gates of Heaven. They lived together happily ever after—it was Heaven, after all—and although Rosario sometimes thought about the life he had as a leading biologist or the acclaim his two college textbooks received or all the medical seminars around the world that he was invited to attend or give, he was happy to have made the right choice. They forever remained the happy family he had always loved.
Another man died on that fateful day, Serapio. He lived somewhere in Olongapo, but that is an unimportant detail and of little consequence. His SMI was a 23.7, he was admitted inside, and God had him face the same question.
“What is it you want the most?”
“What?”
The same exchange occurred, and he thought about it as long and hard as Rosario did.
In the end, he said, “Well, before I think this over any further, I’d like to see Your face!”
God smirked (but of course, Serapio didn’t see Him), and said: “Good answer.”
The blinding light mellowed down, and in front of him were his family, all his friends (each one wearing a party hat), and even one of his young nephews who died in a car accident holding a Magic Sing for the celebration—all congratulating him. Beyond them were cafes and mountains, artists and beautiful deserts, outer space and the stars, an aurora borealis extending throughout the entire expanse he could see, all accessible to his barefoot soul—it was quite a strange and whimsical place, and very wonderful. In the corner of the adjacent street was a man walking with his family, smiling blissfully, telling them what a wonderful, blinding light God’s Heaven was. Serapio did not understand, but figured that he would come to say that one day as well.
Then, to his right was a graying beard connected to an old face, smiling warmly. Contrary to what the world had made Serapio believe about his God, He was brown-skinned, but that is an unimportant detail and of little consequence.
