I don’t know if Bob Berdella found faith before he died. But almost all of us do

Deathbed confessions, changes of heart — who needs them? Everybody, according to death and dying expert Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. She insisted it was crucial that hospice nurses and caretakers encourage the dying to speak their hearts and minds if at all possible.

Recently at our neighborhood Bible study, Joy, a Southern Baptist, told us how she used to pray for her ex-husband, that he would eventually find salvation. She said, “My prayers must have worked, because he did, in his last moments.” We thought that was pretty wonderful, him squeezing into the pearly gates in his final hours.

But then she said that it made his second wife really mad. The deal that sealed their marriage was the fact that they both were confirmed atheists. And there he went, at the last minute, trotting out of bounds with the eternal angels to the other side.

Protestant pastors, and even a handful of Catholic priests, carry around a big, zipped-up Bible full of conversion stories, some happening at death’s door. I don’t know about the Church of Satan. Those ominous buzzard priests would be lazy not to try — for bragging rights, if nothing else. Pulling a soul down to hell and the underworld forever? The devil is nothing if not vainglorious.

Many lives ago, strolling through Kansas City’s hip Westport Flea Market, I drifted like a pink feather into Bob’s Bazaar Bizarre. The blocky man behind the counter shocked me with his frowny contempt. What had I done? Did I have something on my shoes? He hated me at first sight. His eyebrows were drawn on, black and pointy, like he was headed for a Halloween party. But it was not Halloween.

It was the murderer Bob Berdella. I had no idea about his gruesome, after-hours modus operandi. It is not recorded in penal history that this killer experienced a deathbed conversion. But if he did, it may be the only thing that puts him with the majority with other dying humans.

Last-day conversions are not common in the slammer, nor in the free world. Many atheists hang in there until they finally become a totally inanimate object.

Take Freud. He harbored no version of Judaic or Christian faith. No supernatural woo-hah. No ancient alien astronaut theory. He worked hard not to believe. Freud was pleased, to his last breath, that he remained the consummate atheist. But I have reason to believe it didn’t really work, and that the doctor missed the no-strings exit and ended up forever alive somehow.

What gives me this special scoop? I keep having this dream in my deep night sleep. I am riding in the shotgun seat. Some invisible benevolence is driving with fantastic steering ability, which means I get to sightsee. I hear something panting in the backseat: “Huff-huff.” Then it is quiet back there. I turn to see a regal, silver Airedale, sitting still, with a perfectly curved doggy beard and serious eyes.

I always say, “Who are you?”

You know who it is already. “Sigmund,” is all he says. Going for a ride with me. Reserved in the back seat, no seat belt for old Sig. No need for any fairy-tale false security, being the purest of atheist dogs.

Sigmund never preaches or lectures. Never tries to get behind the wheel. It’s still my Volkswagen. I could kick him out. Truly, I like his companionship, as long as he says nada. But if he ever starts trying to psychoanalyze me, he’s going into the trunk.