So there's this fear I have....dates back to my early(er) years. You'd probly have to ask my dad at which age, specifically, he had to begin the ritual of praying the devil out of my bedroom...shielding me from those spiteful little demons who twisted my tiny mind with fear.
I still grapple with, wrestle against this terror and it's bottomless and inexorable in it's pursuit of me and I suppose the irony is that its very subject is infinite as well: eternity.
So you know, while Jimmy down the street didn't really dig big snakes, and Janie across the block was stressing over an impending math test, here's scrawny, shivering little Me, in sleepy suburban Columbus, cowering under the covers, breathless at my lot in life....or rather, my lot after it.
Afterlife. It's an insane concept that we teeny humans have tried mightily to bottle up with special sermons dedicated to the topic, sacred reincarnated cows, with men marrying multiple wives in order to obtain a more rewarding afterlife. If you ask me, their reward has mostly been fulfilled here on this globe. But just if you ask me, I guess.
I had this vision tonight. This is not a normal occurence for me. Well, I suppose it is, but normally my nighttime daydreams are heavy with pain and suffering and fear, anxiety over the family I read about in the paper, the one where the dad committed suicide after taking the lives of his two boys, or the very popular (in blog-world) little boy with a heart defect, or just the general certainty I carry with me that something awful will happen to my little ones the minute I drift off.
This place felt uncannily light, satisfyingly open. I was walking along a road, and I was not walking alone. Matching my slow gait was a dark-skinned woman - beautiful, soft-spoken yet articulate with deep kind eyes. She had the kind of eyes that made you think of that Aaliyah song - Age Ain't Nothin But A Number (right?). Anyway.
I suppose a birds-eye view would have shown my new friend and I flanked by an endless calm sea and a towering stone wall on the other side of the road. The wall did not frighten me (normally I would have been afraid of it) and somehow I knew it had a story or two to tell.
She held my hand and I sensed I needed it for the journey, so I left my palm in hers.
In low tones she began to explain to me how this wall - this fortress, almost - came to be.
An entire family had sacrificed their lives for one small group of stones that ran along the base. We stopped at intervals, and when I pointed out gaps, her tears were a keen explanation of the tiny lives that never stood the chance to get their part of the wall built. And the tears dried and the eyes shined as she spoke of the valor of men and women who'd been chiseled, scraped and torn, molded and not folded under the pressure to bury their stones in wealth and certificates of worldly acclaim...those stones she pressed gently, thoughtfully, lovingly.
Almost placid remained her demeanor as we matched stride for slow stride, and it was with no concern at all that I came to realize I hadn't a clue as to where we'd begun this journey or when we'd finish with it.
Her hand was strong and I sensed she knew me, my uncertainty I always felt in that Other Land, and she asked me if I needed a break, a rest from the teaching, the telling at times of acts so horrifying they'd normally infest my heart with their evil for days.
All this heart felt, in this place, was a love and light and a peace that I could not understand because it was nothing I could ever have come up with on my own. Telling, that.
I conveyed as much and it took only a glance at her well-worn sandals that she'd stay this pilgrimage, though the details all seemed familiar to her already. Most importantly, I was convinced that I'd not be left and I'd continue to walk in love and peace, learning of what had only ever really mattered.
So what do you make of THAT? As I told my husband, usually when I write, it's only of what I know, b/c it's the only thing I've ever learned of writing, that if you write about your own experience it's going to be worth a little more than anything else you'll come up with.
I asked him what he thought heaven was like. Do our loved ones who've passed on (in his case, his father) see us? Feel emotion towards us? He's a philosopher, so his response was probably quite wise and not altogether understood by me, little old mom of three whose days are consumed by play-doh and diapers. But the gist of it is this: that those already there have always been there, just as we have, and our finite minds cannot grasp the concept while we're limited to this human skin.
I guess all I know at the end of it is this: I hope heaven is like a big love-fest in Hawaii, and that I can feel that grace of that place here, even for a little bit.
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