Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash
The brilliance of light permeates every direction; and though I try to see beyond it, there is no way to discover its source. Nothing with defined form or shape is visible, for no darkness is allowed. Yet, somehow in the midst of the blinding light, I can still see the outline of my own body, lying in a hospital bed below. That dreaded bed – the one that has become my appendage for the past 6 months. The strangest thing is that though I know it is me lying there, I also know that I am up here, too….somehow, somewhere, looking down at myself.
Where am I? I attempt to ask. The question is there, but no sound to send it forth. Unable to reconcile time or space, I finally surmise that I am in some type of void…a nothingness . But it is a warm and peaceful space, and I know that I am safe in this foreign realm.
While I debate with myself if I should strive to see more, I am suddenly distracted by audible, spoken words. It is a familiar voice from a long time ago. Soon, I realize that it is MY voice! Not my current, 100-year old breathy, mucus-filled rattle, but the voice of a younger me. The forms in the shadowy space beneath me come into focus now, and I can see a second person, sitting beside the hospital bed below. Wait a minute! This other person is also me — a younger me — a woman of 55, sitting and talking to my bed-ridden, 100-year old self. The tone of speech she is using is one I often used as a teacher, when I would guide my students to analyze their thoughts on a certain topic. With a stronger volume than normal, I can hear my 55-year old self asking question after question. Does she realize I am in a semi-conscious state?
“So, Janet, when you think about all the events that have led up to this point in time, what is one occasion you would want to hold onto as you take this next step? Remember, you must choose a time from your life that made a difference somehow.”
How could I even remember every scene from 100 years of living? I think hard, trying to connect with the past. I want to articulate a word, or a statement, but the 55 year old sitting Janet doesn’t allow me enough time, as she continues the questioning.
“Perhaps you want to recount the day of your marriage? Well, the second marriage, that is. I think we both know you would not wish to give much thought to your first marriage. That was such a sad time, when you kept hoping beyond all hope that the marriage could be restored. I don’t know how you hung in there those many years of waiting.”
This younger version of myself has just taken me to a place I really do not want to remember, causing me to have to emotionally regroup in order to search for a happier time in life.
With her latest comment, she gives me more silent, waiting time to respond; but again, it’s not enough. I cannot seem to express any coherent thought. Soon, she persists, as if annoyed by my silence, “Hmmm, well, if your second marriage to that dear and wonderful man, Elmar, isn’t the memory you want to hold on to, what time of your life DO you want to take with you?” I think I can hear myself actually utter a sigh, for there is not enough time to rest in the wonderful and loving memories I had for 50 years with my beloved, Elmar. He was an amazing husband; and yes, I did cherish the day of our marriage. If there were one moment in my past to carry with me, it would likely be that moment we said, “I do”. But I just can’t seem to catch up with the eagerness of my younger self. Frustration is definitely surfacing, and I wonder if my 55 year old self has always talked this much.
“What about those many years of teaching?” She presses on, “We both know how you cherished your work with all those culturally and linguistically diverse students and their families. You were a strong advocate for their success in American public schools, weren’t you? So many aspects of the school system brought inequitable treatment to them, and you championed the necessity for better instruction at every turn. You worked tirelessly to help teachers understand their unique language development needs. Now that is something to be proud of, isn’t it?” I begin to locate images in my memory of precious darker skinned children, smiling at me, as they share their learning. Yes, these were meaningful years, to be sure.
“OR, Here’s something else to consider,” her pace hurries along. “What about after you left the classroom and you decided to coach young teachers into becoming excellent craftsmen of the profession? Remember, your role soon moved into one of advocacy for teachers. This was crucial once society became so critical of teachers in general. What a bandwagon that was. You know, you probably should have stuck it out a little longer before you retired. Eventually the tide turned, and society began to learn their lesson about their treatment of public servants. I know you were relieved when the pendulum swung back a bit; but by then you had retired. Hmmm,” she hesitates a bit, “In light of that fact, this might NOT be the memory you want to choose to take with you. I don’t think the choice of retiring early would move you forward in a positive direction.”
She was right; I had given up the fight for teachers. It became such heartache for me to watch the public school system disintegrate at the hands of those with an alternative agenda — those who did not care about the disadvantaged children, or their teachers. No, this memory would not carry me into the mysterious place I am heading.
In a brief moment of clarity, I realize I must go back further in my past. I know there is something there; but with so many other memories to glean through, it is difficult to find the one I’m searching for. And younger Janet’s rush to get me to my destination seems to be reaching a sense of urgency.
“Perhaps we need to reach back further in time.” (she must be reading my mind). “Think for a few minutes about that decade of your thirties.” You were finally divorced, and you were starting to figure out how to live life as a single woman. You purchased that adorable cottage-style home, and you went on three mission trips with Habitat for Humanity. Those were life-changing times, as you and your church friends helped so many families build or rebuild their homes. Think about those precious families in Mexico who had been living in bamboo shacks with grass-covered roofs. Or what about the families in Nicaragua, whose homes had been destroyed in the hurricane? Remember the little children in Guatemala, who you read to along that steep mountain slope? Carrying cinder blocks up that hill was so physically taxing, you were glad for the rest. These trips were sacrifices of love, to be sure, and any one of them could easily be the memory you take with you, couldn’t they?”
She stops herself abruptly, and then raises a new thought just as quickly.
“Wait! What about when you were a volunteer youth leader with your church? You coordinated weekly youth fellowship events and special retreats. You even sponsored those 14 year old girls who wanted to form a dance troupe…Let’s see, what did they call themselves? Oh yes, The Angels of Grace. I don’t think you realized it then, but you were very instrumental in the formation of their faith in God. Do you remember the many times you prayed for them? Those were meaningful years, weren’t they?”
And just as I begin to smile in that memory, the bomb drops.
“Uh-oh….Umm… I just remembered….” she speaks with hesitation now, “I don’t think we can use that one after all. You quit on them, didn’t you? You grew weary of the work; and after two years, you needed a break. Well, you had also lost your own faith a bit, hadn’t you? The single life was so lonely, and you became sort of angry with God for allowing your first marriage to fall apart. Carrying all that hurt and anger was bound to steer you away from your good intentions with the youth. I guess we’d better move on to something else, huh?” Her upbeat tone subdues now into silence. Finally, silence.
If tears could fall in this quiet void, it would be raining right now. My heart breaks as I realize that too often in life I had given up the efforts spurred on by so many good intentions. If this search continues much longer, I don’t think I can bear it.
After a few moments, my tear-blurred vision clears, and as I look down into the foggy scene below, I notice my 100 year old self begin to move. Her eyes slowly open and she looks up toward the void where I am. And then, that wrinkled, blotched face smiles at me. The frail, tiny body raises herself up a bit and whispers these few words, “June 8th, 1973, when I was 12…”
Immediately, 55 year old Janet gasps and her composure melts. She gently touches the 100 year old hands and cradles them in her own. She speaks in a much gentler tone now.
“Yes, that’s the moment isn’t it? I understand why you picked this moment in time. In the innocence of youth, you made a very important choice that night in June, didn’t you? There, on the floor of your bedroom, you knelt down and told God you would love and serve Him faithfully all the days of your life, didn’t you? That moment opened up your heart, and transformed you into a person who would endeavor to do right the rest of your days. And when the humanity in you failed, causing you to grow weary and quit, your faithful heart always reached the point of repentance. Again and again you asked for and received forgiveness for those times you fell short. Trusting that gift of mercy, you always moved on. When the doubts grew too strong, and you lost faith, God’s mercy found you and nurtured you back to a life of service. It hasn’t been a perfect life, we both know that. But it has been a faithful journey, and you walked it out in humble awareness of your own frailties.”
Silence again; but it is not a silence wrought with frustration this time. No, the void where I am becomes the most joyful place as the awareness of the most important moment in life is finally found.
Suddenly, that peaceful space in the void where I am a mere observer fills again with the brightest presence of light. I can no longer make out the definition of form below me. Yet, I am not sad. I know what lies ahead now, and I am ready for those next steps my 55 year old self was preparing me for. So, as time and space begin to evolve into something new and unknown, I rest in the memory of a 12 year old girl, who knelt down one June night to make a decision to live and serve God faithfully the rest of her days.
