“You, Susan Greene, will burn in infinite misery,” warned Terry Robinson, a reader, in response to a column on gas drilling.
Mike Packer is praying for me because the medical-marijuana certification I wrote about recently is a one-way ticket to damnation.
A Catholic theologian reacted to a column about Denver’s archdiocese by expressing his concerns about my afterlife.
To those and other critics intent on damning me to hell, I’m happy to report that God loves me.
That was the word at 6:48 Friday morning when the nicest woman misdialed my cellphone, apologized, then bid goodbye by saying “God walks beside you.”
“There are signs of God’s love everywhere,” she said.
Indeed.
Hours later, hundreds of geese flew by while I was refilling my wiper fluid. A clerk at the gas station noticed the flock was shaped like a cross.
“God’s with us,” he told me. “It’s written in the sky.”
And on the sidewalk, apparently. Because, shortly after the goose incident, I noticed a man walking at the side of Uinta Parkway with a 12-foot cross.
Far be it from me to miss any signs. So I followed him through Lowry as he chatted on his Bluetooth.
“What’s up?” I asked after he finally ended his conversation.
“Oh, just walking. Trying to keep a strong pace. Getting my heart rate up,” he answered without mentioning the 45 pounds of redwood he had resting on his shoulder.
Arthur Blessitt went on to explain that he lives nearby in Lowry. As it happens, he has spent 41 years carrying his cross on all seven continents, 315 countries, island groups and territories. He has survived in 52 war zones, been hit by two cars and made the Guinness World Records for the “World’s Longest Walk.”
“Walking Lowry is a lot less challenging,” he said. “I’ve spent a lifetime trying to reinterpret this cross around the world. It gets a bad rap. People get defensive. But what I’m saying is simple. That God loves me. He knows me. And he cares. People can stop and talk about that message. Or they can drive by.”
Never in 40,000 miles has Blessitt, 69, shouted in judgment outside an abortion clinic. Never has he used his crucifix to block a gay-pride parade. And not once has he ever wished hellfire on a columnist.
I find that refreshing in a man with a giant cross.
Meeting him, no doubt, was a sign.
Not necessarily of God, as Blessitt, the goose guy and the wrong-number lady were pointing out.
Rather, a sign to write what I’m tempted to write every time that a reader uses the phone number or e-mail at the bottom of this column to hex me into an infernal underworld. That it’s possible to walk beside people whose beliefs and symbols aren’t exactly our own. That there are messages all around us. And, like the man said, that we can choose to stop or drive by.
Dissent is one thing. Disagree with me. Criticize. Tell me, as reader Bill Bates felt free to do last week, to comb my hair, wipe the snarl off my face and “GET A LIFE.” Sticks and stones.
But eternal wrath? Really? Can’t we agree to keep our hands off each other’s hereafters?
Gail Collins, the New York Times opinion writer, put into words last week something I’m learning each day I do this job.
“I have never believed that everything happens for a reason,” she wrote. “But I do feel very strongly that everything happens so that it can be turned into a column.”
Susan Greene writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
