...gone...

St. Peter was caught at his desk a lot last week. Like always, there were piles and piles of applications in front of him, in all the languages of the world.

One in particular caught his eye. An old woman in Milwaukee was waiting to be whisked away by angels. Robinson was the last name.

He looked at the resume. Elaine. Good name, he thought to himself. Long-time loving wife. He nodded. He sees that often. Caring mother of four, a little less common, a little more meritorious. Spirited grandmother of eight, more rare still. Plus, they've got a soft spot in their heart for grandmas up in heaven.

Down the page, though, one statistic popped out at him. Great-grandmother of none. That’s odd, he bemused. He quickly sent eight angels down towards each of those grandchildren, just to make sure they weren’t duds.

At the very bottom of the page stood just one single-sentence footnote. He stopped and smiled.

Avid fan, until the bittersweet end, of cards, beer and the Milwaukee Brewers.

It didn’t take him long to make the call. He snapped his fingers. An announcer, somewhere in the Uecker seats, could be heard making the play-by-play call as the angels scooper her up under their arms and carried her softly toward the heavens.

"Get up, get up, get outta here, Grandma Robinson…Gone!"

And with that, she was.