My great aunt passed away last night. She was almost 89 years old, but still, I don’t think it was her idea to go.

In fact, I can picture her at Heaven’s Gate, arms crossed, arguing with St. Peter.

“You go tell Him I’m not ready,” she says. “Tell Him I want to go home.”

“You are home,” St. Peter says.

“No I’m not. There’s still plenty going on down there and I need to know what happens.”

“Darlin’,” St. Peter says, putting his arm around her. “Things were fixing to get hard down there for you.” (Yes, St. Peter talks like a Texan.)

“What do you mean?” my aunt asks.

“You were facing heart surgery. That’s a hard road for an 89 year old body,” St. Peter says. “You wouldn’t have been able to go to any more weddings or any more baby showers. You wouldn’t have been able to get your hair fixed or your toes done any more.”

“Oh,” she says.

“And He knows how much you loved that house. He thought it’d be much better to take you from there than from some strange hospital room.”

“Oh, I see,” she says.

“Besides that, your new house is ready now.”

“My new house?” my aunt says, perking up.

“Yes. You see that man over there?” he says, pointing to a tall young man in an Army uniform.

“Yes, I remember him,” my aunt says, putting her hand to her mouth in surprise.

“He’s been working on your house for 12 years. He just finished the green house today. So it’s all ready for you to move in.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “It’s about time he did something without me having to fuss at him about it.”

“Come on now,” St. Peter says, putting his hand on her back. “Your mama just put a pan of lasagne in the oven and your dad’s got a pot of crabs boiling.”

“But what about the ones down there?” my aunt says. “They still need my advice.”

“They’ll get by,” St. Peter says. “And Darlin’ you’ll see them all again soon enough.”