This weekend I am looking forward to going to a wedding. The couple have invited people to bring finger foods and desserts for the reception, and I am planning on it. It feels like a contribution, in a way that enhances the celebration. 

Last month I attended a conference on autism, and the lunch was catered. While I enjoyed the salad, I noticed that the servers were well into their seventies. I felt sad that they had to wear white and black, hustling with gloppy dishes and polyester napkins that don't absorb a drop. Couldn't they slide into retirement, napping in the afternoons, eating cucumber sandwiches on the veranda, with regular visits from their grandchildren? I felt an urge to ask a woman who reminded me of my aunt to sit down and let me bring her a glass of water with lemon. But this was her job, and I kept silent. 

A friend suggested that one of the illusions floating around is that heaven is a catered affair. We will sit in cushioned chairs, starched white linen in our laps, and nod to a fleet of servants. 

"More champagne, madam?" 

"Why, yes. Thank you."

But his suggestion is that heaven is more like a potluck. Each of us is eager to bring our best to the table. 

While the seniors who filled my tinkling glass at the conference perhaps wished they could put their feet up, it is likely that they have spent a few decades in full time service. I might fantasize that they should be granted a chance to be lazy, but probably some of their sweetest memories involved placing a steaming plate of food in front of a son home from college, or baking a cake on a grandchild's birthday. 

The difference is that in heaven, our bodies will again be young.