I have here an email which reads:
“Sean, you often write of angels and miracles, and today, of Heaven. But if Heaven and angels are real, which I do believe, then Hell and demons must also be real. I guess writing about those is less fun? People don’t like to think about those ideas. But presenting only one side of the spiritual realm is perhaps misleading?”
After reading the above letter, I realized something important. I have never written about hell. Over the years I’ve written about angels, miracles, cancer survivors, dogs, play-off games, small towns, and eyebrow hair. But never hell.
To verify that this was true, I had my research department, Jamie Martin Dietrich, comb through a decade’s worth of columns. The research department determined that—unless you count columns on the NCAA National Championship—I have never written about hell.
Thus, I am going to tell you a true anecdote about hell, a place which, I can assure you, is real. I know this because I visited hell a few months ago when I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles to register a boat trailer.
No sooner had I entered the DMV than the clerk said, “Take a number and get in line!” And I knew I was in purgatory.
So there I was, standing in a line of tormented souls, all waiting for our numbers to be called. This line was longer than the line to the men’s room at Jordan-Hare Stadium.
I was alongside people who were unshaven and disheveled, gnashing their teeth, and surviving on vending machine food. I met an elderly man who had been standing in line to register his Ford Station Wagon since 1954.
After 40 days and 40 nights of waiting, I was finally invited to approach a teller window.
I told the clerk I wanted to register my boat trailer.
She managed to say her next sentence in one, eye-rolling sigh. “Do you have proof of registration?”
I explained that, no, I didn’t have registration because I originally bought my boat on craigslist in Alabama, a state which doesn’t require registration on boat trailers.
She answered, and I quote: “Sir, the trailer must be registered before we can register it.”
Welcome to hell.
So the following day, I drove three hours into Alabama to get this squared away. I contacted the former owner of the boat to accompany me to the local DMV.
The teller in Alabama was much like the woman in Florida. She had the same trademarked cheerful disposition. Same hairdo. Same make and model of pitchfork.
“I can’t register this trailer,” the clerk said, “because it hasn’t been registered.”
This was beginning to feel like an Abbot and Costello routine.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I just want to register my boat trailer, why is this so hard?”
“Sir, we don’t require registration on boat trailers in Alabama.”
“I know that, but I NEED this registration because I live in Florida.”
Another eye roll. “Then what are you doing in Alabama?”
Give me strength.
So I threw myself upon her mercy and explained my problem in painstaking detail. To her credit, she heard me out. Then, in a display of genuine compassion, the kind of human tenderness that makes you proud to be an American, she said, “NEXT IN LINE?!”
I called my cousin, Ed Lee, about the ordeal.
“Boy, oh, boy,” Ed Lee said, “what a mess. I wish you’d called me first, I could have saved you some trouble.”
My cousin is a veteran boat buyer. He has purchased four boats in Alabama and knew exactly what to do.
So the following morning, Ed Lee came to my house with a plasma cutter, an angle grinder, a sledge hammer, and a welding mask. Together we cut up the boat trailer into tiny pieces and hauled it away to the county dump.
Still, if I’m being honest, my favorite description of hades is my grandfather’s description. Which I will share with you.
Granddaddy delivered this particular description one Wednesday night at church, just before he said the prayer at a potluck.
“Hell is not a place of flames and devils,” my grandfather began. “I believe hell is a big dining hall, a lot like this room we’re standing in now.
“I believe hell has the biggest feast you ever saw, all the finest foods, steaming and ready to eat. Except something’s wrong. Everyone in hell is weeping and fighting, because nobody can eat this delicious food. Because their arms won’t bend.”
While potluck guests were thinking about this, my grandfather explained that heaven is no different than hell.
“In heaven I think it’s the same way,” he said. “Heaven has the same feasting table, the same wonderful foods, the same problem of not being able to bend your stiff arms. Only up in heaven nobody is crying.”
“Why not?” someone asked.
“Because,” my grandfather said, “in heaven everyone feeds each other.”
Admittedly, I know nothing of the afterlife, and I think we can all agree that I’m unqualified to make insightful remarks on the subject. There is one thing, however, I know for certain about hell. The doors are locked from the inside.
Just like the doors of the DMV.
We bought a gently used recreational vehicle from a lovely couple whose unfortunate health developments made camping a risky venture (poor things, wishing them good health). We brought our new vehicle back into the state and waited the couple weeks for the title to make its way through the quagmire of such government paperwork. The day we got it - wham. Shutdown over a stupid virus. DMV closed. No title transfers by mail. We must wait until the office opens again. No appointments, no working this out, stay home, can’t help you, go away. This was found out after at least an hour on hold, several times over weeks.
We waited and waited. Finally, over a couple months later, the DMV opened up again. We got there a few minutes before opening time and joined an already long line, following the shouted instructions of bemasked DMV matrons ordering us to order, stand on the tape marks, do not move to the next tape mark until the person in front of you has moved to the next tape mark. Improperly worn masks will be grounds for removal from the line. Don’t touch anything. Breathe only when absolutely necessary, and you must remain masked. We crawled forward like a drunken centipede, hopscotching obediently to the tape marks as the line slowly inched forward. As we got close to the door, a DMV employee scanned our forehead for temperature. We were not too hot and not too cold, so we passed. The tape marks led us slowly into the building and into the DisneyWorld-esque back and forth queue, a well-known version of hell on earth.
We finally reached our turn in line. We carefully snuck up to the window, like sneaking up to a crate of wet TNT. A pleasant young woman greeted us through her mask with a “Mffmmmmkkklfffng.” Her eyes were nice and the tone was welcoming so we went with that and smiled back at her even though the effect was blanketed by the masks.
We expressed our desire to title our new-to-us vehicle and she went right to work typing, stapling, unstapling, reordering the pages, typing some more, mousing and clicking on her computer screen, and printing. Voila. Success as she invited us to sign here, here, and oh yes here for the penalty. Penalty?! Yes, we were “neglectful” of getting our vehicle titled within 30 days after purchase. “But y’all were closed for over two months,” mattered not to the DMV matron, her next-cubicle-neighbor, or the supervisor. Did we want to transfer the title or not? Yes, ma’am, yes we did.
Nothing else to do when you’re in DMV hell.
You couldn’t possibly make up stories to match what happens in real life and no one can tell those stories better than Sean. My husband and I both are laughing out loud!
I agree, we all need a cousin Ed Lee!