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Paddy thought a moment. He was a wheeler-dealer of sorts but he knew he was no match for Saint Peter. Then remembering the old Irish legend that God had given Saint Patrick the gift of being judge for the Irish, he boldly stepped to the table, and put his face within a half inch of Saint Peter’s. "Send for Saint Patrick, for I’m a son of Erin."

"You’re a third-generation American. Get lost."

"He’ll see me. Send for him, I say."

"Ah, as you wish, but I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time, and mine. More are expected." Peter pushed a button on the table.

"Hmm, that button wasn’t there a minute ago," said Paddy.

"You didn’t ask to see Saint Patrick a minute ago."

Saint Peter looked up and Paddy O’Reilly turned around to see what Saint Peter was looking at. The gates of Heaven were opening slowly, silently. Paddy watched as a bishop clad in Kelly green robes and carrying a shepherd’s crook came walking out from Heaven surrounded in a cloud of glory.

"What can I do for you, Saint Peter?" asked Saint Patrick.

"This American asked to see you. Claims he’s Irish. Doesn’t sound Irish. Sounds American."

"Is that the evidence against?" Saint Patrick asked pointing his shepherd’s crook at the book Saint Peter was holding.

"Of course."

"And for?"

Paddy produced his blank slip of paper.

"Let me examine this one." Saint Patrick took a long look into Paddy O’Reilly’s face, his stare penetrating Paddy giving Paddy a feeling of deep peace and love all at the same time.

"He’s one of mine," Saint Patrick proclaimed. "Know his mother. Fine woman."

"He’s not good enough to enter Heaven, Saint Patrick."

"I know, Saint Peter, but I’ll advise him just the same. He’s a son of Ireland and I’ve been given the right."

"Do what you want, he’s not getting in."

Saint Patrick took Paddy by the arm and then slipped his arm around his shoulder and began walking him slowly towards the gates and speaking gently to him. "Now, son, I want you to think carefully. We have to present a convincing defense."

"None of your tricks, Saint Patrick. I see the direction you’re walking him. He doesn’t get past that gate unless I say he gets past that gate."

"You see how it is, then Paddy O’Reilly," Saint Patrick declared. "You did right asking for me. And you did right by asking for the trial. Too many folks make it all the way to the gates and then give up and go away. I can’t give you but one bit of advice. That’s all I’m allowed. So ask a question and I’ll do the best I can by you, my son."

"What do I have to do to get into Heaven?"

"My son, you are indeed wise to ask that question, as obvious as it is, you would be amazed at how many never ask themselves this simple question in all their lives. And the luck of the Irish is with you for you’ve had a lifetime of the Christian faith. Here’s my one bit of advice I’m allowed to give you, my son: The answer is in the Gospels and in your heart."

Paddy thought for a moment. "In the Gospels and in my heart? What do I know of the Gospels, I’m not much of a reader. All I know of the Gospels is Jesus. Jesus this and Jesus that. What am I to make of it? The answer’s in my heart? What’s in my heart and in the Gospels? What’s in the Gospels? I don’t know, I don’t read them. What do I know of the Gospels? Jesus. That’s all I know. Jesus. Jesus miracles. Jesus Christmas story. Jesus died for our sins."

Now, an Irishman’s blue eyes are about as bright as any eyes have a right to be. The brightness of Irish eyes are so famous that songs have been written about them. Well, right there and then, Paddy O’Reilly’s eyes brightened to a brilliance that was glorious to see, beyond any eyes any Irishman ever sung about. Paddy had an idea.

Paddy took his slip of paper, walked boldly over to the table where Saint Peter sat and picked up a pencil. "That pencil wasn’t here a minute ago."

"You didn’t have anything to write a minute ago," replied Saint Peter.

Paddy wrote quickly, clearly and decisively. Saint Peter reached for the slip, but Paddy pulled back and turned to Saint Patrick. "You be the judge, Saint Patrick."

"Well, I’m not really the judge, you know, Paddy. That’s just an old Irish legend. Not true at all. But let me have a look." Saint Patrick took the slip and read it. A broad grin swept across his face and his entire body began to glow softly as though he had swallowed the sun and its radiance was shining through his skin. He folded the paper in half and handed it to Saint Peter. "This will do, I’m sure, Saint Peter."

"If you say so, Saint Patrick. But I’ll have it for the records just the same."

"You keep it, Saint Peter. Paddy and I are going for a walk." Saint Patrick put his arm around Paddy’s shoulders and escorted him through the pearly gates. They disappeared into the fog and mist as the gates slowly and silently closed.

Saint Peter smiled and picked up the paper Saint Patrick had placed on the table. The slip of paper Paddy O’Reilly had written a single word upon. Before opening the folded note and reading it, Saint Peter crooked his head towards the pearly gates and listened. He waited a brief moment before the sounds of joy resonated past the walls and gates of Heaven. Saint Peter smiled broadly and his whole body resonated with the sound of joy in Heaven. His skin shown as though just beneath the surface their dwelled a thousand suns.

And that’s how it was Paddy O’Reilly got to Heaven.

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