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He was rich and in need of nothing. At least, that’s what Reginald P. Pompington thought.

But sometimes what we consider important isn’t important at all. Often, the things we overlook turn out to be the things that matter most.

Reginald’s rather unusual experience left him bewildered, frightened, and facing questions he had never bothered to ask. Along the way, he discovered that true riches may have very little to do with the things we spend our lives trying to possess.

I hope you enjoy The Man Who Owned Everything.

Painting by Thomas Cole, (1801-1848) The Pilgrim and the Cross

The Man Who Owned Everything

Reginald P. Pompington Gets a Second Chance

The entire town was in shock the day Reginald P. Pompington had a heart attack.

The rich man’s servant, Alfred Pickles, found him in the bathroom of the Pompington estate, just on the outskirts of Puddleton.

There he was. The master was slouched over the marble tiles in what he used to call ‘The Chamber of Relief’. His head was resting against his 24-karat gold toilet bowl. The figurines of two silver cherubs holding a roll of perfumed toilet paper looked down on him in pity. Dressed in his white silk pajamas trimmed with ermine, Reginald’s eyes were wide with terror. 

Poor man.

Alfred Pickles checked his pulse. The master was still alive, but seemed to battle in no-man’s-land, somewhere between heaven and earth. He called 007, the emergency number for Puddleton.

Two ambulances came roaring up with flashing lights and deafening sirens. After all, a man of his stature deserved the best. 

Five paramedics with serious faces ran out and hauled him into the first ambulance. Not even three minutes later, they raced off again. 

Alfred Pickles stayed behind. He was mildly in shock, wondering what had just happened. A heart attack? Just like that? 

Doctor Petronius Plink had given the master a clean bill of health only a month earlier. Could it have been an unfortunate accident? Slipping on a bar of soap? A tumble over the exquisite rug of tiger skin before the washtub?

No, the paramedics were unanimous.

Just an ordinary heart attack. 

Regardless, it was just ‘bad luck’. 

Of course, Reginald P. Pompington himself knew very well what had caused it.

It had not really been a heart attack. 

At least not at first. It had all been the fault of that powerful new electric toothbrush he had just imported from China. A glorious new device that promised his teeth would become so white and so bright that even the women of Puddleton would finally love him for who he was instead of just for his wealth. 

But alas, the wretched device had malfunctioned upon its first use when he stuck it into the socket. 

Electricity coursed through his body. 

He’d never forget it. His teeth had chattered, and all the hairs on his body had stood on end. Horrible.

His delicate frame could not withstand such violence. 

How strange it had been when his legs became limp and his arms turned to wax. They had felt that way only once before. That had been the day he had so stupidly volunteered to help his mother move house. But this time it was way worse.

And all that because of the new toothbrush. Imagine the money he had spent on that thing. What a waste. Sickening. Just sickening.

He still recalled floating above the ambulances on their way to the hospital while the silhouette of Alfred Pickles disappeared in the distance… 

He remembered seeing pedestrians jump out of the way of the ambulance.

How strange it all was. Had he actually left his body?

Soon after, a dense fog surrounded him. Came out of nowhere. Reginald swung his arms around to keep the misty shreds of nothingness out. Drops of vapor attached themselves to his lips, cold and wet. Slimy almost. 

Yuck. 

But his frantic efforts paid off. The fog lessened. He could see again.

There was a crowd. 

People were sniffling and crying. There was a coffin, too. 

Was that his casket there on the grass next to that dark hole? Was he watching his own… funeral? 

That couldn’t be. He wasn’t really dead… at least, not that dead.

Maybe it was just a dream? A vision? A hallucination of sorts? 

He didn’t know.

His life wasn’t supposed to have ended, and what was more, he still felt very much alive.

Panic clawed at him as he looked around.

Life was different here.

It was light. Airy. And somehow, much clearer too. Your thoughts were more exposed, as if nothing was hidden. But it sure felt desperately lonely, too.

His attention was drawn to a children’s choir, gathered around the coffin. They were singing a hymn about the glories of heaven. Their voices were high and sweet. Alfred Pickles’ daughter was among them. She even shed a few tears, and her voice broke while she wailed, “Abide with me…Change and decay in all around I see.” 

That was sweet. That brat was still thinking about him. 

Then again… it may have just been the work of her father, Alfred. No doubt his servant was hoping for a slice of the inheritance. “Well, Alfred… bad luck. Your name isn’t in the will.” 

When the singing was done, he saw Reverend Archibald Crumble moving in. Reginald watched in shock as he heard the man speak of heavenly armies, eternal glory and Reginald’s arrival in a much better place. 

Excuse me?

News flash, Crumble! I am alone here and not in anybody’s army. And it sure doesn’t look better here. 

In fact, it was chilly and empty.

Oh, if only he could go back. He screamed at the top of his lungs, but nobody heard him. No-one paid him any attention. He watched, fists clenched, as they lowered the coffin into the ground. The loud thud on the muddy ground chilled him to the bone.

“No! Have mercy… Somebody, have mercy!” 

Something rustled behind him, and from far away he heard someone whistle a tune. The same tune of Abide with Me. 

A whistle?

That meant someone else was out here too. Thank heavens. He wasn’t alone. Someone could show him the way out.

He turned and stared across a field of clouds. There, in the distance, a figure approached.

Familiar somehow.

Reginald narrowed his eyes and gasped. No, that couldn’t be? Was that his servant, Alfred Pickles? 

“Blast and botheration!” A curse escaped his lips.

Yes, it was Alfred Pickles all right. Same hair, same face, same ridiculous limp. But something about the way Alfred looked at him made Reginald hesitate. Alfred never dared to look at him like that, as if he was in control rather than Reginald. 

What in heaven’s name is going on here?

As his servant approached, Reginald cleared his throat. He moved an annoying strand of hair away from his sweaty forehead, took a deep breath, and hissed, “Pickles, get me out of here really quick. Where is the door?”

Alfred looked at him, but said nothing. Something sad and compassionate lingered in his eyes. It unsettled Reginald even more. 

Finally, the being spoke. “I am not Alfred Pickles. I just look like him. And a door… sorry, there’s no door that I know of.”

Reginald blinked. “No door?”

“No door. At least, not a door that leads you back to where you came from.”

“Then who are you?”

“I am your angel.”

“Excuse me?” Reginald leaned forward. “You sure don’t look like an angel.”

“Neither do you,” the angel replied. “You see, things are a little different up here.” 

A thousand questions raced through Reginald’s mind, but he voiced none. Utterly helpless, he dropped his arms and a tear formed. The last time he had shed tears was as a child. That had been the day his nanny had served his cocoa in the wrong porcelain cup. He cried for two hours because she had mistakenly served his drink in the “Tuesday cup,” instead of the “Wednesday cup.”

But this was different, and Reginald knew it.

The angel, or whoever he was, put a comforting hand on his shaking shoulder. “Anything I can do for you. Reginald?”

“I wanna go home,” Reginald blubbered.

The angel sighed. “You are home. This is where you belong.”

The words shocked Reginald, and his tears stopped instantly. “This… is home?”

The angel simply nodded.

“But…” Reginald protested, “… where are my things? Where’s my mansion? My home… my golden toilet?”

“They don’t belong here. This is the real world,” the angel said. “Here you only get to keep what you send ahead.”

Reginald stared at him.

“Really? And… what did I send?”

The angel looked away. “Nothing.”

Silence settled over the clouds. 

Reverent Archibald Crumble’s booming voice was no longer heard. The angelic voices of the children’s choir had stopped. The vision of the funeral was done, and nothingness surrounded Reginald. Even though breathing here seemed surprisingly effortless, it now felt like his chest was about to burst.

How he hated not knowing what to do next. 

Even worse was the annoying look on the face of that angelic figure. Was that pity? He didn’t need that. He needed to go back to what he knew to be home. To the normal world. And fast.

But how? 

Surely the angel knew more. Perhaps he should turn on the charm. Show his humble side. That would likely work better here. 

He took a deep breath and asked, “Mister Angel… Please, help me out here. How do I fix this? I may even offer you a substantial reward for guiding me back to my mansion.”

The angel said nothing.

It irritated Reginald. Just when impatience set in and Reginald wanted to complain, the angel swung his arm in the air and … two doors appeared.

Just like that.

Reginald’s mouth sagged open.

There had been no doors before. Yet, now there were. 

Beautiful doors too. 

They sparkled with ethereal light. Whatever was behind them had to be grand. He could not determine what they were made of. Marble perhaps? 

Such doors would make for a wonderful addition to his own mansion.

“W-what are those?” he asked, his voice weak and faltering. “I thought you said there were no doors here.”

“I said, there are no doors that lead you back to where you came from. These are doors that lead elsewhere,” the angel said.

It sounded ominous. Reginald licked his lips. “And… uh… what’s behind them? Where do they lead?” 

“That depends on how you answer the question that God has for you.”

“God?” Reginald blinked. This was getting serious.

The angel nodded. “Yes, God. The Almighty, the all-powerful one. God who made you.”

The words washed over Reginald.

God who had made him? Was there really a God after all? He had never paid much attention to the idea. He considered the Bible an elaborate fairy tale. A story for poor people who needed to cling to something they couldn’t even see. As far as he understood it, God was the sort of being who demanded everything from you. He pestered you with pointless rules that did nobody any good. Who wanted that? No, he was fine. He had everything his heart desired.

Everything?

Perhaps not everything.

He had to admit that at times he couldn’t sleep at night. Hours in the dark where he wrestled with thoughts and fears. Irritating nights when a feeling crept up that something was missing. That there was more to life than his mansion and his untold wealth. Such thoughts always brought on a strange loneliness. Thankfully, it never lasted very long. Ultimately, a new day dawned, and he forgot all about it.

But God?

Perhaps he had misunderstood the rules and God wanted him in church. He thought of the church near his mansion, The Puddleton Fellowship. A dilapidated building that he despised. The people who went there were not his kind either. They were commoners. They were smelly and uneducated. Yet, he would grin and bear it all if it would help him find his way out of here. He’d promise to go there every Sunday. That would surely please the Almighty, just in case He existed.

He cleared his throat and asked, “I have a few ideas, but tell me first… what happens if I don’t give the right answer?”

The angel shook his shoulders. “I guess you’ll find out.”

Not comforting. Not the answer Reginald had been hoping for. 

He shivered and looked at the angel who just stood there being useless. Reginald had to resist the urge to command him around. He looked so much like Alfred Pickles. And yet, something told him this angel was not about to be pushed around.

“So… what is that brilliant question from God?”

The angel looked serious. “You want to know? Are you ready?”

Reginald swallowed. “Sure. Shoot.”

“All right, here we go,” the angel said. “God wants to know what you did with the things He gave you?”

“What? That’s it?”

Reginald could not suppress a smile. He had expected questions like:

Why did you spend so much money on your new toothbrush?

Can you tell me all ten commandments?

Who was the most beautiful person you ever dated?

These would have been tough questions indeed, but not this one. This question was simple.

He cleared his throat, lifted his shoulders, and as relief washed over his face, he said in a strong, confident voice, “I protected my things. All of them.”

The angel looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“I kept all the things… uh… God gave me, safe,” Reginald said, but his confidence drained away. Somehow, the angel did not seem impressed.  

Maybe he needed to show more enthusiasm, so he tried again. “I polished them. Guarded them. I stored them in bigger and better barns when I needed to.”

Why did that angel not understand? He was very clear, wasn’t he?

He swallowed hard and added, “I retained all of its value. You should have seen the shimmer coming off my golden toilet.”

The angel shook his head. His eyes held a deep sadness, and for a moment Reginald was certain even the angel would shed a few tears. He did not, but said in a steady but soft voice, “Try again, Reginald.” 

The words could not have been louder if the angel had yelled them.

“I… but… um…” Sweat broke out. “W-what do you mean?”

 “You heard me,” the angel said. “You have another chance.”

That sounded threatening. 

How many chances did he have? Reginald racked his memory and let the question linger. “What have I done with the things God gave me?” 

Not such a simple question after all. What was especially disconcerting was the fact that the angel seemed sure God existed. It made sense. If angels were involved, then it was pretty obvious God was there too, somewhere. And then possibly God was looking for other things than golden toilets and exquisite rugs made of tiger fur.

But what could that be?

Reginald let out a helpless sigh and looked up at the angel, his hands stretched out in desperation. “Can you give me a clue… I mean… just tell me if I am getting hot or cold. Will you do that for me?”

“Sure,” the angel said.

That was encouraging. Reginald licked his lips and said, “So… God doesn’t mean my wealth?”

The angel nodded. “You are getting warmer.”

“Does it have anything to do with…” Reginald hesitated. “… with my good standing in society? After all, I am a pretty important person in Puddleton.”

A shiver coursed through Reginald when he saw the angel shake his head. “No, Reginald, you are getting cold again. Freezing, in fact.” 

Freezing! Oh my…

Reginald swallowed hard. What else was there if it wasn’t fame or wealth?

Reginald’s gaze focused on one of the doors. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what was behind there.

“Does it… Does it have anything to do with other people?”

“Warmer,” the angel said, and his eyes lit up. “You are getting warmer.”

Reginald heaved a sigh of relief. At least he had some direction again. But if he were entirely honest, he didn’t really care for people. He had no friends to speak of.

What about the women he knew? 

He didn’t know any women. He never even had a girlfriend. The closest thing to a girlfriend had been Amelia Muddlewap, his kindergarten teacher. But that didn’t count. Not that he didn’t like women. He did, but they just didn’t like him. With a shock, he remembered the stack of girly magazines stashed away in his cupboard. God would surely disapprove of those, so it was best to stay away from the subject of women. 

“God didn’t give me many people,” he blurted out. Of course, he knew Alfred Pickles. But he was just a servant.

The angel was still staring at him, his eyes concerned. “I’ll give you one more clue.” 

“Please!”

The angel remained still for just a moment. Too long for Reginald’s liking. The stillness tore at his heart. But at last the words came. “What, Reginald, is the one thing God gave you that you can’t possibly do without?”

Reginald sank down on the cloud and threw out his arms in desperation. “I don’t know,” he wailed.

“Think,” the angel commanded. “It’s not so difficult, all things considered.”

Reginald scowled. That was easy for the angel to say. He buried his face in his hands and uttered a desperate plea. “Help me! God, what are you asking of me?”

A deep silence settled upon his heart. 

And in the silence, something stirred. Was that a voice?

Yes, it was. 

Still. Small and truthful.

“I gave you life, Reginald. What have you given me in return?” 

The words hit him like a freight train. Life… He had been given life. That was something he’d never considered. He had not received life so that he could have a good time. There was more to it. Much more. There was a reason for it all. Suddenly, the presence of God made sense, and so did God’s question. 

What had he done with the gift of life?

He knew the answer too. Nothing really.

He had spent his life on the things of this world. On his own comfort. His wealth, his success… Somehow, now that he thought about it, that seemed like a mistake. A bad one, too.

But he loved things. 

So much so. He loved his wealth. And his honor. He also cared about the jealous looks of the townsfolk on those rare days when he drove his carriage into Puddleton. 

But now it seemed somehow wrong. The realization dawned that maybe, just maybe, the Almighty was looking for other things. 

More sweat. This was a conundrum, really. He was in a pickle…

Pickle?

The word reminded him of his servant, Alfred Pickles. 

At the thought of Alfred Pickles, a dam in his mind broke. Images washed over him. Memories of how he had mistreated his servant. Working him to the bone, treating him without consideration. But one image stung him deeply. It took his breath away. He saw it as clearly as if it was happening right there.

In his memory, he saw Alfred Pickles polishing his impressive collection of beloved jewelry. He heard the jarring bell of the front door again. He knew who was at the door. Alfred’s daughter. She wanted to see her father. She had a pebble to give him. A pebble…

Just a stupid, worthless flint with a particular shine.

He would not let that kid disturb Alfred Pickles’ important work. Not for something worthless like that. Of course, he’d sent her away. He remembered it well.

She cried. He didn’t. 

But now he cried too, just like that dear child had done while singing ‘Abide with Me’ at his supposed funeral.  

He felt his face getting red. 

Misery, o misery. 

He turned to the angel, hoping to find comfort, but when he looked up, another shock almost floored him. The angel was gone… Well, not quite, but he was now standing on the other side of an enormous, gaping abyss, its depths grinning at him with terrifying menace. 

And the two doors? 

The two doors also moved and now stood on either side of the angel. But the door on the right of the angel was no longer closed. 

It had opened. A horrible, oppressive mist filtered out and floated in Reginald’s direction, across the gulf before him. He gritted his teeth as he saw the unwanted fog coming. And that weird bottomless pit before him? Did that thing somehow come out of that opened door too? How was such a thing even possible? 

An illusion? 

It seemed all too real.

“Blast and botheration,” he cursed. “W-what has just happened?” 

The door to the left of the angel was still closed. Somehow, the fog didn’t go there. Rather, there was light streaming out from under the door.

Soft, warm, and comforting.

Clearly, that was the door he needed. But how? 

He forced himself upright and cried out to the angel again. He heard the desperation in his own voice as his cry wafted over the gulf. “Have mercy. I’ve been a horrible person. Is there still hope?”

The angel called back. “Where there is life, there is hope.”

Life? That was a strange answer. Whatever. He’d deal with that later. “Help me, please! What can I do?” he cried out.

Hardly a sound was heard. He noticed only a strange, soft murmur from the fog. Then the angel cried back, loud and clear: “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be safe.”

Believe in Jesus Christ? Seriously?

He wanted to. It all made sense. Images of his mother rolled in. There he was, sitting on her lap while she was reading to him from his children’s Bible. It was almost as if he heard his mother’s voice loud and clear. “Faith, Reginald is a bridge. It leads from darkness to light. You don’t have to understand the bridge before you trust it enough to cross.”

Even as a child, he had considered it sentimental nonsense. But now it made so much sense.

Reginald threw his arms up. “I want to… but how do I do that? I don’t understand. Help me with my unbelief.”

“You just walk.” He heard the angel’s voice calling back.

Walk? How? There’s an abyss here.

 Right then, the other door opened. Reginald squinted and couldn’t believe what he saw. A bridge formed before him. A bridge in the shape of a cross.

“Come,” the angel encouraged him. “It will hold you.”

Reginald needed nothing more. He sprinted to the bridge. Just before he stepped on, he wavered. The abyss below seemed dark. So dark and deep. 

He remembered the gist of his mother’s words; You don’t have to understand the bridge. Just trust it will hold you. 

Yes, Mother, that’s what I will do. I am coming.

He stepped onto the bridge. Secure. Safe. It held him as he walked forward to the angel and to the door of light.

With every step, he felt lighter, almost as if he were becoming weightless. A wonderful feeling, truly. The light was getting closer, and peace filled his heart.

And then, just before he stepped into the light, he lost consciousness.

***

“We are losing him,” the doctor cried out. “Adrenaline! I need adrenaline! He’s gone into cardiac arrest.”

A nurse ran up. Confusion reigned.

The entire medical team was on edge as the doctor administered the medication.

Nobody said a word.

Everyone watched in anticipation.

And then, miracle of miracles, Reginald P. Pompington opened his eyes.

Back in the land of the living.

There had been no funeral. What about the angel and the two doors? Had any of it really happened? And yet the images of what had just occurred were so vivid… It didn’t matter. He was alive and he would figure it all out later.

A nurse wheeled him out of the E.R. to an ordinary room in the hospital. A ward with five other men.

Simple men. Commoners.

All the private rooms were occupied. 

Reginald didn’t mind. He was fine as it was. When the doctor came to check on him, a smile appeared. Weak and tired.

“Thank you, doctor,” he mumbled. “I am grateful for all you’ve done.”

The doctor nodded. “You’ve been lucky, Mr. Pompington. We almost lost you.”

“I know,” Reginald mumbled. “But here I am.”

The doctor smiled. “Anybody we need to notify, Mr. Pompington?”

Reginald nodded. “Please.”

“Who is it, Mr. Pompington?”

“I would like to see Alfred Pickles and his daughter. Can you tell them I am longing to see them?”

_____

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